/ 






\ 




Zrwravcd by C.Bcath. 



BORTST MAY 1720 _ D LED JANUARY 9, 1770 



Fromi a Portrait in the pafseisioii 
of the late lvf s Elizabeth Carter. 



Pwbh/ked June 8*1811. bv F.C.k J. M \ 



THE 



WORK 






OF THE LATE 




1..COLL. 



MISS CATHARINE TAL&O.T, 



FIRST PUBLISHED BY THE LATE 

MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER; 

AND NOW REPUBLISHED WITH 

SOME FEW ADDITIONAL PAPERS 

TOGETHlJRWITH 



X. 



AND ILLUSTRATIONS 



AND 



SOME ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE. 



BY THE 

REV. MONTAGU PENNINGTON, A. M 

Vicar of Northbourn in Kent ; Executor to Mrs. Carter, 



THE NINTH EDITION. 



ilonfrm : 

PRINTED FOR F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON, 

no. 62, ST. Paul's church-yard ; 

AND NO. 3, WATERLOO PLACE, PALL-MALL, 

1819. 






In £■>,*% 



Printed by R. Gilbert, 
St. John's Square, London. 



X 






CONTENTS. 



REFLECTIONS ON THE SEVEN DAYS OF THE 
WEEK. 



On Sunday. 

Monday. 

Tuesday. 
Wednesday. 

Thursday, 

Friday. 

Saturday. 



page 

The Omnipresence of God, and the 

Practical Inferences from it 1 

The Improvement of Time and Self- 

Examination 5 

The Duty of constant Employment. . 12 

On the humble and religious Enjoy^ 

ment of the Blessings of Life . , . . 17 

The Duty and Manner of being Use- 
ful in Society 24 

On the Happiness of the present State, 

and the Self-Denial required in it S\ 

The Importance of Time in relation 

to Eternity , , . . . . 42 



ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 



I. On the Employment of Time in the different 

Situations in Society 49 

II . On True Politeness ; ♦ . 5$ 



«*S£ 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

III. On the Accommodation of the Temper to 

Circumstances 69 

IV. On Delicacy of Feeling 77 

V. On the Employment of Wealth 84 

VI. On the Importance of Riches 92 

VII. On Literary Composition 98 

VIII. On Prior's Henry and Emma 103 

IX. On the Separation of Friends by Death , 111 

X. On Self-Love 117 

XI. On the Principle of Self-interest as applied to 

Education 123 

XII. On the Distinction between Cunning and Pru- 
dence 130 

XIII. On the Necessity of encouraging Hope 13T 

XIV. On the Moral Uses of Geography 142 

XV. On Consistency of Character 148 

XVI. On the Art of Pleasing in Society , 154 

XVII. On the Power and Necessity of Confidence .... 160 

XVIII. On true Friendship 165 

XIX. On our Passage through Life ; a Reverie 170 

XX. On our Capacity for Pleasure 179 

XXI. On Reflection as the Source of Cheerfulness . . 186 

XXIL On the Employments of Life 190 

XXIII. On Resignation to the Will of Providence. ... 194 

XXIV. On the Happiness derived from Society* ..... ]98 
XXV. On Trust in Providence 205 

XXVI. On the Necessity of Innocent Amusement • • • • 210 

-LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON A FUTURE STATE, IN THE 
CHAHACTEU OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 



I. 217 

II. 220 

III. 324 



COiS TEXTS. 



DIALOGUES. 

PAGE 

I. Description of a Moral but not gloomy Retire- 
ment 231 

II. Enquiry how far Practice has kept Pace with In- 

tention 235 

III. Danger of too much Prosperity without the Assist- 

ance of real Friends 242 

IV. Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of Vanity 245 

V. On the Nature of Human Happiness 25S 

Occasional Thougpits . . . * 263 

PROSE PASTORALS. 

I. Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of a 

Shepherd's Life 271 

II. On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty 278 

III. The Happiness of a religious Hope 283 

A Fairy Tale — Education 288 

IMITATIONS OF OSSIAN. 

1 317 

II 319 

III 322 

ALLEGORIES. 



I. Life compared to a Play 327 

II. The Danger of indulging the Imagination 33^? 

9 



CONTENTS. 



POETRY 



rAGJs 

To Laura •••?••"• •.;.*- ...... ... * . • » . 343 

On Reading the Love Elegies, 1742 345 

Written on New Year's Eve while the Bells were ringing 

out the Old Year S48 

To Cheerfulness * 350 

Moral Stanzas . . . . 354 

Lines written in the Country towards the end of Autumn 356 

Elegy .........= , 359 

i-Q&e » * . . » 9 • . .•»«** . ? . . .60... ...... . . ««...« . e . o 36X 



PREFACE* 



The demand of this little volume having been so 
great as to make a new impression of it necessary, 
the Editor has been earnestly requested to prefix to 
it some account of the amiable and excellent Author. 
To this no reasonable objection could be made, but 
the want of any other materials than such as are 
already published, as contained in the Memoirs of 
Mrs. Carter, and the Series of Letters between her 
and Miss Talbot. But as some persons may pur- 
chase these Essays who are not in possession of 
those larger and more expensive works, it was 
thought that to collect from them for this edition, 
some of the most striking particulars of the Life of 
Miss Talbot could not be considered an improper 
repetition. The reader will, however, no doubt 
join with the present Editor, in lamenting that the 
task should have devolved on one so unable to per- 
form it properly, instead of having been executed by 
her who first collected and arranged these scattered 
remains ; who was acquainted with every particular 
of her friend's life ; whose high esteem and warm 
affection would have engaged her heart in it ; and 



VI PREFACE. 

whose abilities would have done ample justice to the 
subject. 

What prevented Mrs. Carter from adding to her 
beloved friend's works, her own testimony to her 
character and her conduct through life ; whether it 
was by the request of Mrs. Talbot who was then 
living, or whether such a desire had been expressed 
by the deceased lady, cannot now be known. What- 
ever the cause might be, it could have no operation 
beyond her life ; and it seems to be fulfilling a duty 
to society, to shew that the virtues of her character 
were not inferior to the excellencies of her writings ; 
that there was no discord between her conduct and 
her opinions; and that the strict attention to the 
duties of the Gospel which she so strongly recom- 
mended to others, was not less enforced and adorned 
by her own example. 



SOME 



ACCOUNT 



LIFE OF MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 



Catharine Talbot was born in the month of 
May, 1720. She was the only child, and born five 
months after her father's decease, of Edward Talbot, 
second son to William, Bishop of Salisbury, and 
afterwards of Durham, and younger brother to 
Charles, first Lord Talbot. Her mother was 
daughter to the Rev. George Marty n, Prebendary of 
Lincoln. 

It does not appear that Mr. Edward Talbot was 
brought up to any profession, unless he was either in 
the Church, or designed for it*; which an expression 
in the Bishop of London's life of Archbishop 
Seeker rather seems to intimate, If however this 
was the case, he had certainly no considerable pre- 
ferment ; and dying so early, having only attained 
the age of twenty-nine years, and being a younger 

* He was Archdeacon of Berks, 
a % 



Vlll ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

brother, he left his widow in a situation very inade- 
quate to his rank in life. She had been married to 
him only a few months, and was left in a state of 
pregnancy. Happily for her the kind attentions of 
a dear and intimate friend were not wanting at that 
critical period. Catharine, sister to Mr. Benson, 
afterwards Bishop of Gloucester, who had been the 
companion of her early youth, and whose brother 
was upon an equally intimate footing with Mr. 
Talbot, was residing with her at the time of his 
death. She was her great support in that heavy 
affliction, and when her infant was born, who came 
into the world with a very weak and delicate con- 
stitution,- it was supposed that she could not have 
been reared without the assistance of her care and 
tenderness. 

These endearing circumstances naturally formed 
a still closer bond of intimacy between the two 
ladies ; and they continued to live together, and to 
bestow all their joint attention upon the infant Ca- 
tharine. But before she was five years of age, this 
establishment was broken up by the marriage of 
Miss Benson to Mr. Seeker, afterwards Archbishop 
of Canterbury, but then Rector of the valuable liv- 
ing of Hooghton-le-sprjng in Durham. 

For this preferment however, and others still 
greater which followed it, Mr. Seeker was indebted 
to the friendship of Mr. Edward Talbot, who on his 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. IX 

death-bed had recommended him to his father the 
bishop. Mr. Seeker's grateful heart was never un- 
mindful of this obligation, which naturally induced 
him to pay great attention to his benefactor's widow 
and child. 

When therefore he married Miss Benson from 
her house, he immediately joined his wife in the 
request that Mrs. and Miss Talbot would from that 
time become a part of his family. The offer was 
accepted, and they never afterwards separated ; and 
upon Mrs. Seeker's death, which took place in the 
year 1748, they still continued with him, and took 
the management of bis domestic concerns. 

There is feason to suppose that Mr. Seeker paid 
considerable attention to Miss Talbot's education; 
for when she and her mother went to reside with 
him, she was under five years of age ; and as Mr. 
Seeker had no children, he always treated her as 
his daughter, and took the same pride and pleasure 
in her dawning genius, as if she had in reality been 
such. From her mother it does not appear proba- 
ble that she could acquire much either of literature 
or accomplishment; but to her she owed what was 
of much greater consequence, strictly religious and 
virtuous principles, so well grounded, and on a foun« 
dation so solid, that they were never afterwards 
shaken in any situation of life. For though Mrs. 
Talbot was not a woman of brilliant parts, and h«r 



X ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

own education seems to have been rather neglected, 
yet was her mind strong, her judgment sound, her 
manners amiable, and her piety fervent as well as 
rational. 

But besides her mother's instructions, Miss Talbot 
enjoyed the benefit of a constant intercourse with 
the eminent Divine with whom they lived ; and his 
enlightened mind soon discovered the extent of her 
early genius, and was delighted to assist in its im- 
provement Hence, although she never studied the 
learned languages, unless perhaps a little Latin, she 
reaped all the advantages of Mr. Seeker's deep and 
extensive learning, of his accurate knowledge of the 
Scriptures, and of his critical and unwearied research 
into the sciences and languages more immediately 
connected with that important study. 

Yet though so much attention was bestowed on 
serious pursuits, the lighter and more ornamental 
parts of female education were not neglected. For 
the acquirement of these there was abundant oppor- 
tunity in the different situations in which Mr. 
Seeker's rapid progress in the Church placed him*. 
In 1727 he became a Prebendary of Durham, and 
for the two following years lived chiefly in that city. 
Not long af.er this, he was appointed King's Chap- 

* Several of these particulars, both relating to Archbishop 
Seeker and to Mrs. and Miss Talbot, are taken from the 
Bishop of London's Life of that Prelate. 

9 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XI 

lain ; and in 1733 became Rector of the Parish of 
St. James in Piccadilly ; which preferment he held 
for upwards of seventeen years, during which he 
always resided for at least half the year in his par- 
sonage house. In 1734 he was promoted to the 
Bishoprick of Bristol ; to that of Oxford in 1737 ; to 
the Deanery of St. Paul's in 17o0; and to the Arch- 
bishoprick of Canterbury in 1758. 

From the time therefore that Miss Talbot was 
seven years of age, she lived almost constantly in, 
or near, large cities ; and was consequently enabled 
to acquire every useful branch of education, and all 
those elegant accomplishments which add so much 
grace to beauty and virtue. She learnt music, .but 
without acquiring any considerable proficiency in it, 
or bestowing upon it much time ; but she was ex- 
tremely fond of Church music, and when Dr. 
Seeker was Dean of St. Paul's, bestowed great 
attention upon the choir of that cathedral*. In 
drawing, and painting in water colours, she made a 
much greater progress ; and as some or her Letters 
shew that her knowledge of these sciences was by no 
means superficial, so some of her performances, still 
remaining, prove that her execution would not have 

* For the service of that church she requested her friend 
Mrs. Carter to alter the Anthem of " Lo, He comes with 
clouds descending ;" the whole of which she composed, except 
the first stanza. See the Series of their Letters, 4to. p. 333, 
vol. i. 



xii ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

disgraced even a professional artist. She particu- 
larly excelled in painting flowers from nature, and 
in landscapes ; of which some beautiful specimens 
are in her present Editor's possession. 

While this attention was bestowed on Miss Talbot's 
accomplishments, it may readily be supposed that 
the sciences and modern languages were not neg- 
lected. She had a complete knowledge of French 
and Italian, and late in life she taught herself Ger- 
man, with a view at first of being merely able to 
read the " Death of Abel" in the original. She 
appears also to have had some small acquaintance 
with Latin ; but of Greek she knew nothing, and 
often lamented her ignorance of that language, 
especially while her friend Mrs. Carter was engaged 
in the arduous task of translating Epictetus. She 
studied also Geography and Astronomy with much 
care and attention : and with respect to the latter 
of these sciences, she had the advantage of being 
instructed by Mr. Wright, an Astronomer of no 
small reputation at that time, and an ingenious 
though visionary man. He was also acquainted with 
Mrs. Carter, who was about three years older than 
Miss Talbot, and was already well known in the 
world. The high opinion which Mr. Wright enter- 
tained of both his young friends, naturally made 
him desirous that they should become acquainted ; 
and the reputation which each of them was rapidly 
acquiring, was an inducement also to them to unite 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. Xlll 

ki the same wish. For though Miss Talbot had 
published nothing, yet her character for piety y 
virtue, talents, and accomplishments, began already 
to attract notice, and to be held iu very high and 
general estimation. For she was moving in a dis- 
tinguished sphere of life; her noble birth, great con- 
nections, and residence in the family of so eminent 
a Prelate as Dr. Seeker was, added great lustre to 
her merit, and set it otf with every advantage. 
She was also admired for her personal charms, as 
may be seen by the verses addressed to her, which 
are inserted in the Preface to the Letters between 
her and Mrs. Carter, and she possessed all the graces 
of the most polished manners, and the most fasci- 
nating and winning address. 

But, besides Mr. Wright, the ladies possessed a 
mutual friend in the Honourable Mrs. Ifcooke, 
daughter to John, Lord Ward, and widow of George 
Rooke, Esq. who resided in the old mansion-house 
of St. Laurence, near Canterbury. There she was 
occasionally visited by them both ; but they never 
met till February, 1741, though they had once 
previously seen each other in St. James's church ; 
a circumstance which, though trivial, they were ac- 
customed to recollect with much pleasure, and to 
which sometimes they alluded in their Letters *. 

* Thus Mrs, Carter says, in one of her early Letter?:, 4 to, 
vol, i. p. 9. 



XIV ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

From this time, as may be seen in their corres- 
pondence, an intimacy took place between the two 
ladies, which soon ripened into the most warm and 
intimate friendship ; and this never decreased to the 
hour of Miss Talbot's death, nor was ever damped 
by the most trifling disagreement or estrangement 
whatsoever. The esteem as well as the affection 
were mutual ; it was in the truest sense a religious 
friendship, and they strictly realized the beautiful 
idea of the Psalmist, which has afforded the motto to 
the collection of their Letters, they took sweet coun- 
sel together, and walked in the house of God as 
friends. 

But the warm affections of Miss Talbot's heart 
were not confined to Mrs. Carter only. She pos- 
sessed also the intimate friendship of several 
ladies equally distinguished by their rank and cha- 
racter. Among these, one of the first in both re- 
spects, was the celebrated Countess of Hertford, 
afterwards Duchess of Somerset, with whom she 
passed occasionally a good deal of her time, and 
kept up a constant correspondence ; and she often 
speaks of her in her Letters to Mrs. Carter, in terms 

" Benedetto sia il giorno, e'l mese, e'l anno 
E la stagione, e'l tempo, e'l hora, e'l punto ; 
and St. James's Church and Mr. Wright, and the particles yes 
and no, and every other circumstance, and every other person 
that contrihuted to make me happy in the sight and conversa- 
tion of Miss Talbot. '* 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XV 

of the highest respect and regard. She was also on 
terms of particular intimacy with all the female 
branches of the family of Yorke ; especially Mar- 
chioness Grey and Lady Anson. From this last- 
mentioned lady, however, some circumstances not 
explained in her Letters, occasioned a temporary 
alienation, or rather coolness. But before her death 
this had ceased, to the gratification of both parties, 
and Lord Anson constantly after that event shewed 
Miss Talbot the most marked and flattering at- 
tention. 

At what age she began to compose does not 
appear ; but certainly it was early in life, for her 
Poem on reading Hammond's Elegies, was written 
when she was not more than 22 years of age ; and 
though it is by no means one of the best of them, 
it evidently shews a hand which had been used to 
composition, and powers of mind which had been 
accustomed to exertion. It is much to be wished 
that Mrs. Carter had endeavoured to assign their 
proper dates to her different productions, which 
probably she could have done, but which it is in 
vain now to attempt. For no part of the Memoirs 
of genius is more interesting than that which shews 
the developement of mind ; the opening and progress 
of imagination ; and the difference of sentiment and 
opinion (if any such there be) in the various periods 
of life. 



XVI ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

From this omission then, if it really was an omission 
and not unavoidable, it has happened that the Essays 
and other prose pieces, as well as the Poems, do 
not follow each other in any chronological order, or 
regular arrangement. They appear to be exactly 
as Mrs. Carter took them out of what is frequently 
spoken of by both ladies in their Letters, under the 
name of the Green-hook ; a kind of common-place- 
book, in which Miss Talbot seems to have written 
both prose and verse, finished and unfinished, 
sketches and fragments; just as her health, spirits, 
and occupations permitted. For all Mrs. Carter's 
influence could never prevail upon her friend either 
to arrange her papers properly, or to publish them 
herself; though it was what she earnestly desired, 
and had even succeeded so far as to obtain a pro- 
mise * from her that she would endeavour to do. 

* " What shall I answer to your enquiries," says Miss Talbot in 
a Letter to Mrs. Carter, 4to. vol. i. p. 344, " about the green - 
book ? I have remembered my promise faithfully, but am just 
as far from performing it as I was last year. I have read it 
carefully, but can find no order, no connection in it. It wants 
an introduction — so it is returned to the considering drawer 
with many of its ancestors. — The other papers, yours and all, 
]ie in the same hopeless condition. But if I gain great strength, 
spirits, courage, and diligence in this happy retreat {Percy 
Lodge) from every care and every interruption, you may pos- 
sibly hear a better account of me and them." To this Mrs- 
Carter replies by complaining of H the vexatious neglect of my 
favourite point the green-book: but it is really intolerable of 
you not to let the world be somewhat the better for you." 



SIRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XVII 

But however sincerely Miss Talbot designed to 
perform that promise when she made it, ill health, 
and weakness of spirits its usual attendant, formed 
an insuperable bar to its completion. And when 
she grew better, the exercise necessary for her re- 
covery, and the various engagements which her 
situation in life made indispensable, occupied too 
much time to allow her to correct and arrange her 
papers. 

Add to this her domestic employments in the care 
of a large establishment, and her constant personal 
attention to the neighbouring poor both in town and 
country, and it will excite but little surprize that she 
should so frequently complain, when in health, of 
want of time* 

Unfortunately indeed this was not very often the 
case, for the seeds of the fatal malady which at last 
conducted her to the tomb, seem to have been very 
early planted in her constitution. Hence probably 
proceeded the listlessness and languor which op- 
pressed her so cruelly, even when she had no formed 
complaint ; and hence also the disorder which was 
mistaken for consumption, and for which Mrs. 
Carter accompanied her to Bristol, about ten years 
before her death. Her stay there appeared 
to have the desired effect, but she never re- 
covered her health ; and from that time, when she 
was about 40 years of age ; when perhaps the 



XV11I ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

powers of the mind and the soundness of the judg* 
ment are at their height, she became a confirmed 
invalid. 

These circumstances may account for her having 
written so little, considering her love of study, the 
desire of being useful to the world, and the quick- 
ness of her parts. For composition seems in her 
to have been attended with little labour ; her thoughts 
flowed as fast as her pen could write, and there are 
probably not many instances of a style so chaste 
and easy, and obviously formed with so little care 
and study. The correctness of her language, the 
strength of her arguments, and the justness of her 
reasoning, are equally the objects of admiration ; 
and these are set off by a vividness of fancy, and 
glow of imagination, which seem to be the peculiar 
property of a poetic genius. And such in truth was 
her's ; for many of the images, illustrations, and 
similes, even in her gravest prose writings, are really 
poetry, and require nothing but the mechanical aid 
of rhyme and arrangement to make them such also 
in appearance* 

Indeed the world has been sufficiently inclined to 
do justice to Miss Talbot's talents; and few books 

* See for examples of this assertion, among many others, 
the close of Essays ix. xiii. xviii. xxii. and xxvi ; the passage in 
Essay V. concerning the Historical Glass ; several in the Pas- 
torals ; and the Third Imitation of Ossian. 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XIX 

of more moral and religious instruction have had 
a greater sale, and gone through more editions than 
the little posthumous volume of her miscellaneous 
works. Of the " Reflections on the Days of the 
Week," published separately, upwards of twenty- 
five thousand copies have beeu sold ; and of the 
collection of her works, the present is the ninth 
edition. This is a circumstance not less creditable 
to the age, than it is to the Author ; and it also 
proves the correctness of her friend's judgment into 
whose hands they were put by Mrs. Talbot. She 
published them upon her own account and at her own 
hazard. " I do not believe*," says she, in a Letter 
to Mrs. Talbot, " that I shall be a loser : and I have 
a better opinion both of the sense and virtue of the 
world, than to think it in the least degree probable, 
but that such a work will meet with the approbation 
it so justly deserves." The event shewed that she 
was right; and the excellence of her motives for 
wishing them to be published, appears very evident 
from the following paragraph in another Letter to 
Mrs. Talbot. " I imagine by this time a good part 
of a third Edition (of the Reflections on the Days 
of the Week) is sold off. What a comfort it is to 
think on the diffusive good which that dear angel 
has communicated to the world, of which she is now 
enjoying the reward ! What a blessed change to 
herself from the suffering state of the last sad year i' r 

* See Mrs, Carter's Memoirs, 4to» p. 281, 1st. edit. 



XX ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

This was written in December, 1770, when Miss 
Talbot had not been dead more than eleven months. 

But this excellent as well as amiable young woman 
ought not to be considered by posterity merely as an 
author. Great as her talents, and brilliant as her 
accomplishments were, she possessed qualities of 
infinitely more importance both to herself and so- 
ciety. Her piety was regular, constant, fervent, 
but not enthusiastic. It was the spring of all her 
actions, as its reward was the object of all her hopes. 
Her charity, including the whole meaning of the 
word in its apostolical sense, was extended to all her 
acquaintance, rich as well as poor ; and to the latter 
she gave, not only such relief as her circumstances 
would allow (for she was never rich) but what was 
infinitely more valuable to her, no small portion of 
her time. 

It is impossible to read her Letters, especially 
those from Cuddesden, without perceiving how much 
of that precious time, of which she so bitterly la- 
mented the want, she bestowed on the necessities of 
her poor neighbours. She examined, instructed, 
and rewarded the children; she gave her advice to 
all who wished for it, and from those who were in 
want of pecuniary assistance her liberality was never 
withheld. In this last respect there is reason to 
believe that she was often Dr. Seeker's almoner : 
lor there can be no doubt that be, who when he 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXI 

became Archbishop of Canterbury, constantly be- 
stowed in charity upwards of two thousand pounds 
a year *, had been equally bountiful before in pro- 
portion to his income. 

Highly accomplished, and admired as Miss Talbot 
was in her youth, it does not appear that she ever 
turned her thoughts to matrimony. If she had, 
circumstanced as she was, opportunities for her 
forming an advantageous and honourable connection 
could not have been wanting. Her birth and situa- 
tion in life, the sweetness of her manners, and the 
reputation of her talents, made her the object of 
general attention and admiration wherever she 
went. Yet there is no reason to believe that she 
ever had any wish or intention of entering into 
that state, or had ever formed any such attach- 
ment as to induce her to desire it. At least 
this appears certainly to have been the case after 
her acquaintance with Mrs. Carter commenced, 
which was in her % 1st year ; though there is in one 
of her Letters a dark hint, as if previously to that 
time there had once been a scheme of that nature in 
agitation. And this, from the manner in which it 
is alluded to, seems rather to have been contrary 

* This is a fact which the Editor has frequently heard from 
the late Mrs. Carter. It is also confirmed by the testimony of 
the late Bishop of London, (Porteus) who was then his Chaplain, 
in his " Review of the Life and Character of Archbishop 
Seeker." 

b 



34X11 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OJT 

to her own wishes, and to have been given up in 
compliance with them, Her health, as has been 
observed before, was always delicate, and early in 
life even became infirm ; and there are passages in 
her Letters to Mrs. Carter, which may imply that 
she had very soon formed a resolution against mar- 
riage. But if this was the case, she was too pru- 
dent, and had too much good sense ever to avow it 
publicly, 

Miss Talbot's studies were very general and de- 
sultory : this was probably occasioned by the state 
of her health, which was such as often to oblige her 
to read for mere amusement. But her opinions 
were invariably formed upon the best and truest 
principles, those of the Gospel, Hence her judg- 
ment, whenever morality was concerned, seldom if 
ever erred. Possibly in the case of Mrs. Carter'9 
Translation of Epictetus*, her fears or her scru- 
ples may appear to some to have been needless, or 
to have been carried too far. But if this was the 
case, it was at least an error on the safe side. It 
could do no harm ; it might be, and indeed it ac- 
tually was, productive of good ; for to it was owing 
the Introduction and Notes with which Mrs. Carter 
enriched that translation. With respect to other books, 
the passages in her Letters which relate to the Ram- 
bler, the Adventurer, and Sir Charles Grandison, will 

* See Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 109, &c. 1st. edit. 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXlll 

probably be read with considerable interest. She 
was very anxious for their success, and particularly 
desirous that the moral parts and narratives in them 
should be such as might improve as well as delight 
the age. For this purpose it appears by the Letters, 
that both she and Mrs, Carter lent their assistance 
to the two last-mentioned Works by various hints, 
and plans, as well of characters as of stories. For 
both ladies were upon intimate terms of acquaint- 
ance with the amiable and respectable author of 
Sir Charles Grandison, and with some of the gen- 
tlemen who wrote occasionally in the Adventurer. 
In particular it appears from a Letter of Mrs. 
Carter * that Miss Talbot had revised and corrected 
Sir Charles Grandison before it was printed ; a task, 
it might be supposed, too long and tedious for her 
weak health, and fully-employed time. 

Miss Talbot's Life affords little scope for narra- 
tive : it passed on in a smooth equable tenor, with- 
out dangers or adventures ; and equally exempt upon 
the whole from any remarkable instances of good or 
bad fortune. This was a blessing of which her 
pious mind was deeply sensible ; and like her friend 
Mrs. Carter, she was always " thankful for days 
not marked by calamity, nor blackened by the horrors 
of guilt." She was never separated for any long 
time from her friend, and indeed second father f , 

* See p. 342, vol. i. 4to of the Series of Letters, 
t It may be proper here just to notice an idle and absurd 
report raised after her own and the Archbishop's decease, that 

b<2 



XXIV ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

Archbishop Seeker. In his various removals to and 
from his different preferments, she and her mother 
always accompanied him, and they had no other 
home but his. While he resided as Bishop of Ox- 
ford at Cuddesden, they entered into all the society 
of that neighbourhood • and when they lived in 
London they had there a large and very respectable 
acquaintance, and many friends. The deaths of 
some of these were almost the only misfortunes, her 
want of health excepted, which Mies Talbot ever 
experienced. The first of them was the decease of 
Mrs. Seeker, which took place in the year 1748. 
She was her mother's dear and intimate friend, and 
they had lived together for several years before her 
marriage with the Archbishop, then Mrs. Seeker, 
took place. To her care, in her mother's deep 
distress for the loss of her husband and the long 
illness which followed it, Miss Talbot had probably 
been indebted for the preservation of her infant 
life, and certainly for a long series of maternal 
kindness and attention afterwards. And how deep 
an impression these had made upon her affectionate 
heart, appears from the Letter which she wrote to 
Mrs. Carter upon the death of Bishop Benson, 
Airs. Seeker's brother, about four years afterwards. 

they had been privately married. Had this been the case, it 
could hardly have been kept secret in that large family ; but all 
their most intimate friends are fully persuaded that there was 
not the smallest foundation for such an idea ; and that neither 
of them ever thought of standing in any other relation to each 
ether but that of father and daughter. 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXV 

u Once before," says she, ' ; your company was a 
great relief to me in a melancholy time. I had then 
just lost the dearest and best of friends, the excellent 
sister of this last departed saint *. You knew her 
not, and I could not talk of her with you : of him 
we might talk by the hour; for who that ever saw 
him as you have done, could ever be weary of the 
pleasing subject? Pleasing it is to know by one's own 
happy experience, that there are such beings in 
human nature, such amiable and benevolent spirits, 
so fitted for a higher state of existence." When 
Miss Talbot lost tins dear friend, she was about 
twenty-eight years of age. 

A few weeks only before the death of the Bishop 
of Gloucester, the event so feelingly referred to in 
the preceding extract, Di\ Butler, Bishop of Dur- 
ham, the celebrated Author of the " Analogy f," 

* Whoever knows any thing of the character of that excellent 
man, will not think this epithet improperly applied This 
Letter is printed in the Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 89, 
1st. edition, and the character is there by mistake referred to 
Bishop Butler ; which error is corrected in the second edition. 

+ The " Analogy of Religion to Nature" Perhaps the most 
clear, convincing, and powerful chain of argument of the 
necessity j propriety, and actual existence of revealed religion, 
ever offered to the world. The absence of all fanciful and 
unsupported theory, the precision with which its data, or first 
principles, are defined, and the perfect fairness with which 
every proposition is examined in that admirable work, make it 
a treasure to every man who wishes to give a reason of the hope 
that is in him. For it proves how well and advantageously 
reason may be applied to the service of religion. 



XXVI -ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

also died. In him Miss Talbot lost one of her 
earliest and most respected friends. " He was/* 
says she in a Letter to Mrs. Carter *, " my father's 
friend. I could almost say my remembrance of him 
goes back some years before I was born, from the 
lively imagery which the conversations I used to 
hear in my earliest years have imprinted on my 
mind. But from the first of my real remembrance, 
I have ever known in him the kind affectionate 
friend, the faithful adviser, which he would conde- 
scend to when I was quite a child, and the most de- 
lightful companion, from a delicacy of thinking, an 
extreme politeness, a vast knowledge of the world, 
and a something peculiar, to be met with in nobody 
else. And all this in a man whose sanctity of 
manners, and sublimity of genius, gave him one of 
the first ranks among men." 

But Miss Talbot lived to experience a still severer 
affliction, though she did not long survive it, in the 
death of Archbishop Seeker. This event, which 
took place in July, 1/68, was extremely distressing, 
upon many accounts, both to her and her mother. 
They lost the sincere and affectionate friend, with 
whom they had now resided for forty- three years, 
without the most trifling disagreement, or the least 
diminution of kindness. They had to seek another 
home, when the advanced age of the mother, and 

* See Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 87, 1st. edition, 



MRS. CATHARINE TALEOT. XXV31 

the ill health of the daughter, made the necessity of 
exertion painful and distressing, and rendered them 
but little able to struggle with the world. For to 
increase their sorrows upon this melancholy occasion, 
even the fear of comparative poverty was not wanting. 
The Archbishop's will was not found till three 
months after his decease, and they had the prospect 
of quitting the large establishment and the affluence 
of Lambeth Palace, for a precarious state of depen- 
dence on a relation, or the occupation of a house to 
themselves on the smallest scale. 

Yet still the balm of religious conversation was 
theirs; and in patient submission to the will of God, 
they found both relief and reward. The language 
of Miss Talbot to her friend was this*; " In so 
great a calamity it will somewhat comfort you to hear 
that my mother and I are well ; composed and 
resigned." And again a few days after, " Circum- 
stances of the greatest distress have been mixed with 
our heavy affliction, and I more than ever see cause 
for thankfulness to an over-ruling Providence. God 
be thanked, our minds are supported in comfort, 
and our healths wonderfully preserved." 

But this circumstance, which caused them so 
much uneasiness at the time, was productive of the 
great advantage of enabling them to know their real 

* See Correspondence, 4to, vol. ii. p* 57, 



XXVI11 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

friends. These were many, and highly respectable ; 
nor indeed does it appear, and for the credit of the 
world it ought to be mentioned, that any of those 
persons who had lived on terms of intimacy with 
them, in their prosperity, deserted them in their 
apparent adversity. Mrs. Carter went to them 
immediately, and remained with them till they re- 
moved from Lambeth, and was, as Miss Talbot 
says, " a balm and cordial" to their spirits. All 
the Archbishop's particular friends vied with each 
other in attention to them ; and a younger brother 
of Mrs. Talbot's husband, Mr. Talbot of Chart, near 
Dorking, took them to his own house, as soon as 
they could leave the Palace, and treated them with 
every mark of affection and regard. While they 
were there, the long sought-for will was found, and 
they became entitled under it, for their lives jointly 
and separately, to the interest of thirteen thousand 
pounds in the three per cent, annuities. 

This bequest, which added to ther small fortune, 
near four hundred pounds a year, a much better 
income in those days than it would now appear to 
be, enabled Mrs. Talbot to take a comfortable and 
convenient house in Grosvenor Street. To this they 
removed in the December following; and here they 
remained till the end of June, when Miss Talbot's 
increasing complaints obliged them to leave London 
for a cooler and better air. Their kind and constant 
friend, the late Marchioness Grey, lent them for this 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT- XXIX 

purpose her house at Richmond, together with 
" every thing she could think of to contribute to 
their comfort or amusement," and at the same time 
recommended them to ail her intimate acquaintance 
in that neighbourhood. 

• From this delightful retreat Miss Talbot only 
returned in time to breathe her last in her mother's 
house in town. She was with great difficulty con- 
veyed thither fro.n Richmond in November, and 
though she thought herself better for the first few 
days, she was never afterwards able to quit her 
own apartment. Her chief disorder, but added to a 
very weak and now completely worn-out constitution, 
was a cancer. 

This fatal complaint, which had now for three 
years been preying upon her enfeebled frame, had 
been kept a profound secret from all her friends, 
except the Archbishop, Mrs. Carter, her own maid, 
and her medical attendants. From motives of kind- 
ness to her mother, it had been concealed even from 
her, till a few weeks only before her death. The 
Letters which relate to her last illness are added to 
the close of the Correspondence between her and 
Mrs. Carter, and are therefore not repeated here. 
Her dissolution took place on the 9th day of January, 
1770, in the 49th year of her age, and was not 
attended by severe pain, or any peculiarly distressing 
circumstances. To her, like the Apostle, to die was 



XXX ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 

gain. Her whole life had been a preparation for 
death ; and her last hours were therefore not likely 
to be disturbed by the horrors of a wounded consci- 
ence, or the agonies of mental disquietude. On the 
contrary this is the account given of her by a lady * 
who was with her when her death was hourly ex- 
pected. " Her -resignation and patience through 
all her sufferings you are well acquainted with ; it 
exceeds all description ; cheerfulness does not ex- 
press her countenance or manner, (I mean on 
Sunday last) there was a joy I never shall forget, 
and founded, I am certain, on the very few hours 
she hoped to remain here : and she told me she had 
that feel within her, that spoke her happiness nearv 
— -I am thankful I have known her, and have some- 
times hopes I may be the better all my life, for 
some. conversations passed in this last illness." 

Mrs. Carter had the comfort of passing a few days 
with her beloved friend, before her death dissolved 
that close and endearing intimacy, founded in the 
most perfect esteem, which had now existed almost 
thirty years between them. The account which she 
gives of this afflicting event, and the short but com- 
prehensive character which she adds of Miss Talbot, 
in a letter to Mrs. Vesey, is so superior to any 
thins; which the author of this slight sketch could sav 
upon the subject, that he hopes he shall be pardoned 

* Miss Jeffreys to Mrs. Carter; Letters, 4to. Tol. ii. p. 75. 



MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXXI 

for adding an extract from it, as the conclusion of 
this Memoir, although it has been published before. 

" Two or three days before her death she was 
seized with a sudden hoarseness and cough, which 
seemed the effect of a cold, and from which bleeding 
relieved her; but there remained an oppression from 
phlegm which was extremely troublesome to her. 
On the ninth (of January) this symptom increased, 
and she appeared heavy and sleepy, which was at- 
tributed to an opiate the night before. I staid with 
her till she went to bed, with an intention of going 
afterwards into her room, but was told she was 
asleep. I went away about nine, and in less than an 
hour afterwards she waked ; and after the struggle 
of scarcely a minute, it pleased God to remove her 
spotless soul from its mortal sufferings to that heaven 
for which her whole life had been an uninterrupted 
preparation. Never surely was there a more perfect 
pattern of evangelical goodness, decorated by all the 
ornaments of a highly improved understanding, and 
recommended by a sweetness of temper, and an 
elegance and politeness of manners, of a peculiar 
and more engaging kind than in any other character 
I ever knew. — Little alas ! infinitely too little have 
I yet profited by the blessing of such an example, 
God grant that her memory, which I hope will ever 
survive in my heart, may produce a happier effect. 

c Adieu, my dear friend, God bless you, and 
4 



XXxii ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE, &C 

conduct us both to that happy assembly, where the 
spirits of the just shall dread no future separation ! 
And may we both remember that awful truth, that 
we can hope to die the death of the righteous only 
by resembling their lives." 

Mrs. Talbot, although she was then upwards of 
eighty years of age, bore the loss of her daughter 
with the most pious fortitude and resignation. She 
died in her ninety-third year of a paralytic attack, 
and was able to continue her Correspondence with 
Mrs. Carter till within a very few weeks of her 
death. 



REFLECTIONS 

ON 

SUNDAY. 



The Omnipresence of God, and the practical 
Inferences from it. 

" O Lord, thou hast searched me out, 
" and known me : thou knowest my down- 
" sitting and mine up-rising : thou art about 
" my path and about my bed, and spiest out 
" all my ways." 

How true, how astonishing is this thought ! 
Almighty God, my Maker, is ever present with 
me. He is infinite in being, and therefore 
must be every where. He is infinite in 
knowledge* and therefore every thing must be 
known to Him. No creature is too incon- 
siderable for his notice, who is the Maker of 
all, and cc careth for all alike." The friends, 
the relations, and acquaintance, whom I see 
and converse with every day, know not half 

B 



2 Reflections on Sunday. 

so much of my conduct as He docs, nor are 
half so attentive to it. How hourly careful 
should I be, then, to approve myself to Him ! 
Among my relations and friends there are 
some whom I regard more than the rest, 
either out of greater affection for their good- 
ness and kindness ; or out of reverence for 
their greater wisdom and dignity ; or out of 
interest, as being capable of doing me more 
good or hurt. All these motives of the highest 
regard are joined in Him. His excellence is 
more than thought can conceive : whatever is 
beautiful, or good, or amiable in the world, 
flows from Him as its source. In Him is all 
greatness and majesty, all wisdom and know- 
ledge: every thing that is glorious, awful, 
venerable. My hourly dependence is upon 
Him, and all my expectations through an 
eternity to come. From Him I have received 
my life, my being, every power and faculty 
of soul and body. Every innocent delight I 
enjoy, is His gift : in every danger, He is my 
present help. No power but his could guide 
me safely through the intricate mazes of life. 
Hitherto His providence has carefully watched 
over me, and His right hand has held me up : 
and through all my future life, He, who is 
truth itself, has promised never to fail me nor 



Reflections on Sunday. 3 

forsake me, if, on my part, I will but serve 
Him faithfully, as in my baptismal vow I have 
promised to do. That blessed covenant I am 
going to renew, by partaking of the holy Sa- 
crament. Had not our blessed Saviour died 
to redeem mankind, we must all have ap- 
peared before an all-seeing God, of infinite 
justice and holiness, without security of being 
considered otherwise than as objects of dis- 
pleasure. But we know, that He looks 
upon us now as objects of the tenderest mercy. 
He invites us to " pour out our hearts before 
" Him," at all times : (C to call upon Him in 
" the time of trouble :" " to look unto Him, 
and be saved." O my soul, in all thy ways 
acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy 
paths. 

Let me then ask myself, as in His sights 
what is the general turn of my temper, and 
disposition of my mind ? My most trifling 
words and actions are observed by Him : and 
every thought is naked to His eye. Could I 
suppose the king, or any the greatest person 
I have any knowledge of, were within reach/ 
of observing my common daily behaviour, 
though unseen by me, should I not be very 
particularly careful to preserve it, in every 
respect, decent and becoming ? Should I allow 

b2 



4 Reflections on Sunday* 

myself in any little froward humours ? Should 
I not be ashamed to appear peevish and ill- 
natured ? Should I use so much as one harsh 
or unhandsome expression even to my equal, or 
my meanest inferior, even were I ever so much 
provoked ? Much less should I behave irre- 
verently to my parents or superiors. This 
awful Being, in whom I live and move, and 
from whom no obscurity can hide me, by 
whom the very hairs of my head are all num- 
bered, He knows the obligations of every rela- 
tion in life. He sees in their full light the 
reciprocal duties of parents and children, of 
husbands and wives, of neighbours and fellow- 
servants. He knows the aggravated guilt of 
every offence against these ties of society, 
however we may be disposed to treat them as 
trifles: and every piece of stubbornness and 
pride, of ill-humour and passion, of anger and 
resentment, of sullenness and perverseness, 
exposes us to His just indignation* 



■^■■■IMHH 



REFLECTIONS 



ON 



MONDAY. 



The Improvement of Time, and Self-exami- 
nation. 

" Blessed are they that do hunger and 
" thirst after righteousness." — Our Lord and 
Saviour has pronounced this blessedness, and 
through his grace, I hope to partake of it. 
Hunger and thirst naturally prompt us to seek, 
without delay, the means of satisfying them. 
What then is the food of the mind ? Whole- 
some instruction and religious meditation. If 
then I sincerely do hunger and thirst after 
righteousness, I shall be frequently feeding 
my mind with pious books and thoughts, I 
shall make the returns of these meals as regular 
as I can, and seldom shall I find any necessity 
strong enough to make me miss them a whole 
day together. — But then it ought to be remem- 
bered too, that even these, the best hours of 
my life, ought never to encroach upon the 
duties and employments of my station, what- 
ever they may be. Am I in a superior station 



6 Reflections on Monday. 

of life? My duty then probably takes in a 
large compass: and I am accountable to my 
Maker for all those talents entrusted with me 
by Him, for the benefit of my fellow-creatures. 
I must not think of living to myself alone, or 
devoting that time to imitate the employment 
of angels, which was given me for the service 
of men*. Religion must be my chief end, 
and my best delight : it must regulate all I 
think, or do; but whatever my station is, I 
must fulfil all its duties. Have I leisure and 
genius ? I must give a due portion of my time 
to the elegant improvements of life : to the 
study of those sciences that are an ornament 
to human nature : to such things as may make 
me amiable, and engaging to all whom I 
converse with, that by any means -f I may win 
them over to religion and goodness. For if I 
am always shut up in my closet, and spend my 
time in nothing but exercises of devotion, I 
shall be looked upon as morose and hypocriti- 
cal, and be disregarded as useless in the 
world. When this life is ended, we have a 

* How much is it to be wished that those whose dispo- 
sition is inclined towards enthusiasm, would consider this 
admirable sketch of religious employment ! 

f 1 am made all things to all men, that I might by all 
means save some. 1 Cor. ix, 22. 



Reflections on Monday. 7 

whole eternity before us to spend in those 
noblest employments, and highest delights. 
But man, in this low state of mortality, pays 
the most acceptable obedience to God, by 
serving his fellow-creatures. 

Perhaps all these considerations are wide 
from my case. So far from having leisure 
upon my hands, I have scarce a moment free 
from the necessary engagements of business 
and bodily labour. While I am working hard 
for bread for myself and my family, or attend- 
ing diligently the commands of a strict master, 
to whom I am justly accountable for every 
hour I have, how can I find frequent oppor- 
tunities for studying the Word of God, or 
much time to spend in devout meditation? 
Why, happily, much is not required, provided 
I make the best use of what little I have. 
Some time I must needs have on Sundays, 
and this I may improve. I may diligently 
attend to what I hear at Church: I may 
examine whether my own practice is confor- 
mable to what I am there taught : and I may 
spend some hours in that day, either in good 
discourse, with such as are able to instruct 
me, or in reading such religious books as are 
put into my hands. Still enough will be left 
for chearful conversation, and pleasant walks. 



8 Reflections on Monday. 

Why should either of them be the less chear- 
ful, for a mixture of religious thoughts ? What 
indeed is there so gladdening as they are ? Be 
my state ever so mean and toilsome, as a 
Christian, if indeed I behave like one, I am 
equal to the greatest monarch upon earth. 
Be my misfortunes and sorrows never so 
severe, as a Christian, I can look beyond 
death to an eternity of happiness, of happiness 
certain, and unspeakable. These thoughts, 
therefore, I should keep upon my mind, 
through the whole week : they should be the 
amusement of my labour, and the relief of my 
weariness : and when my heart is thus ready, 
I shall gladly take every opportunity to sing 
and give praise. I shall awake early to wor- 
ship that God, who is my defence and my 
delight ; and I shall close every evening with 
prayer and thanksgiving to Him, whose 
u ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
" whose paths are peace." Whenever I can 
have a quarter of an hour to spare from the 
necessary business, and the (at fit times) as 
necessary relaxations of life, which while they 
are innocent, moderate, and reasonable, will 
never be disapproved by that good God, who 
has created every thing that is comely and 
pleasant in the world, and invites us to rejoice, 

5 



■MMI^Ml 



Reflections on Monday. 9 

and do good, all the days of our life : when I 
have any spare time, I shall gladly spend it in 
reading, with reverence and attention, some 
portions of the Bible. In all my common 
conversation, I shall have my eye continually 
up to Him, wiio alone can direct my paths 
to happiness and improvement, and crown all 
my endeavours with the best success. I shall 
try to be something the better for every scene 
of life I am engaged in : to be something the 
wiser for every day's conversation and experi- 
ence. And let me not fear, but that if I 
daily thus faithfully strive to grow in holiness 
and goodness, be my growth at the present 
never so imperceptible, I " shall in due time 
" arrive at the measure of the fulness of stature 
" in Christ." 

That I may be better for the last twenty-four 
hours, let me examine a little what temper I 
have been in all that time. In general, per- 
haps, I can recollect nothing much amiss in 
it : but let me descend to particulars. Things 
are often very faulty, that appear at first sight 
very trifling. Perhaps I have so fond a con- 
ceit of myself, as to think, that I can never be 
in the wrong. Has any uneasiness happened 
in the family this last day ? Perhaps I think 



10 Reflections on Monday. 

the fault was wholly in others, and the right 
entirely on my side. But ought I not to 
remember, that in all disputes, there is gene- 
rally some fault on both sides ? Perhaps they 
begun: — but did not I carry it on? — They 
gave the provocation : — but did not I take it ? 
— Am not I too apt to imagine, that it would 
be mean entirely to let a quarrel drop, when 
I have a fair opportunity to reason, and argue, 
and reproach, to vindicate my injured merit, 
and assert my right ? Yet, is this agreeable to 
the precepts and example of Him, who, when 
" he was reviled, reviled not again?" Is it 
agreeable to His commands, who has charged 
me, if my brother trespass against me, to 
forgive him, not seven times only, but seventy 
times seven ? It is agreeable to that Christian 
doctrine, which exhorts us, not to think of 
ourselves highly, but soberly, as we ought to 
think ; and that in lowliness of mind, every 
one should think others better than himself? 
And alas, how often do I think this disrespect, 
though a slight one, provoking to me ? This 
situation, though a happy one, not good 
enough for me f How often have I had in my 
mouth that wise maxim, that a worm, if it is 
«rod upon, will turn again! Wretch that I 



Reflections on Monday. 1 1 

am, shall I plead the example of a vile worm 
of the earth for disobeying the commands of 
my Saviour, with whom I hope hereafter to 
sit in heavenly places * ? 

* It is proper to observe, that this excellent illustration 
of these unchristian passions, though expressed in the first 
person, conveys no sort of idea of the mild and humble 
disposition of the writer herself. 



REFLECTIONS 



ON 



TUESDAY. 



The Duty of constant Employment. 

" I must work the work of Him who sent 
" me, while it is day." — If our blessed Saviour, 
infinitely great and excellent, was, when he 
assumed human nature, so far from being 
exempted from the general law of nature 
imposed on our first father and all his race ; 
who is there amongst men, that shall plead an 
exemption ? The duty of employment is two- 
fold. First, as we are active and spiritual 
beings, ill would it become us to sit wrapt in 
indolence, and sleep away an useless life. 
Constant activity, and extensive usefulness, is 
the perfection of a spiritual Being. The great 
God himself is infinitely active. " My Father 
" worketh hitherto, (saith our Saviour,) and I 
" work." In their various degrees, all the or- 
ders of angels are " ministring spirits." In the 
happy worlds above, all is life and activity. 
And shall man, who is so fond of life, lose his 
little portion of it in a lazy, slothful, half state? 



Reflections on Tuesday. 13 

Shall he quench those sparks of immortality, 
that glow in his bosom, and content himself 
with being, for three parts of his time, little 
better than a lump of organized clay ? Inno- 
cent man in Paradise, was not made for idle- 
ness. But guilty fallen man is peculiarly born 
to labour, and to trouble. Equally just and 
merciful was the doom pronounced to Adam; 
" in the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat 
" bread." Human nature, corrupted and 
depraved by the fall of our first parents, would 
be incapable of employing ease and leisure to 
any happy purposes. Greatly do we need 
constant employment, to keep us out of the 
reach of those temptations from within and 
from without, that in idleness particularly 
assault us. Greatly do we need to have much 
of our minds taken up with perpetual attention 
to necessary business, and hourly duty, that 
they may not prey too much upon themselves. 
Labour and pain are the necessary, though 
unpalatable, medicine of our souls. Shall we 
refuse to follow the prescription of that 
heavenly Physician, who drank the bitterest 
cup for us r Toil and trouble are the just 
punishments of guilty human nature : shall we 
rebel against our awful Judge ? Activity and 
employment are the law of our being ; and 



i4 Reflections on Tuesday. 

shall we not obey our sovereign Ruler, our 
great and good Creator ? 

What then is my proper business and em- 
ployment, that I may set diligently to it ? In 
most stations of life, this is too evident to be 
asked. And it is equally certain, that every 
station, even the very highest, has its proper 
work and labour, which whoever performs 
not to the utmost of their power, is a wicked 
and slothful servant, for we have all a Master 
in Heaven. 

Come, then, my heart, let us chearfully set 
about our business. Be it study and improve- 
ment of the mind, toil of the body, or industry 
of the hands : be it care of our families and 
domestic affairs : be it care of the public, and 
distribution of justice: be it care of our neigh- 
bours, and charity to the poor: be it education 
of children, instruction of the ignorant, attend- 
ance on the sick, culture of the ground, de- 
fence of our country : whatever it be, let us 
do it diligently and heartily as unto the Lord, 
and not unto men. As subjects, children, 
servants, let us obey our rulers, parents, 
masters. And if it be the will of Providence 
to disable us, for the present, from all active 
service, by confining us in chambers of sick- 
ness, in a weak and useless state; let us set 



Reflections on Tuesday. 15 

the example of an uncomplaining submission, 
and chearful resignation : and let patience, at 
least, " have its perfect work." 

This submissive, this humble, this obedient 
disposition, is poverty of spirit. We ought to 
think nothing beneath us ; nor to desire any 
thing but what is allotted to us. We ought to 
imagine nothing our own, and surely there- 
fore not our time ! yet how apt we are to think 
it quite a hardship put upon us, if any small 
portion of it is to be spent disagreeably, and 
if we have not hours, and days, and years, 
to indulge in careless idleness, and giddy 
pleasure. 

Among other works, that of reforming my 
temper is surely a most necessary one. Let 
me therefore take mvself a little to task. How 
have I behaved the last day? 

I have not, perhaps, been positively out of 
humour; but have I guarded my disposition 
against every failing ? Have I not indulged a 
nice fancy, in taking some disgust at any of 
those that I converse with ; which, trifling as 
it seems at present, may, in time, quite alie- 
nate our minds from one another ? A disagree- 
able look, or manner, too often gives a preju- 
dice against persons, who are really deserving. 
— Let me be upon my guard against such 



16 Reflection^ on Tuesday. 

prejudices. Let me overlook all trifling 
infirmities in others ; but let me spare them 
the pain and difficulty of having many such 
to overlook in me. Let me observe in every 
thing a perfect cleanliness and neatness : for 
nothing is so disgustful as the contrary. Let 
me be mild and civil, moderate and discreet 
in all my ways of speaking : let my behaviour 
always be easy and obliging, natural and 
unaffected. Let me always preserve, as much 
as I can, even under severe trials, a chearful, 
pleasing countenance : and, among other 
things, let me try to avoid, as much as possible, 
falling into those little foolish tricks and pecu- 
liarities, which every body is so apt to acquire, 
without even perceiving it. I cannot help 
seeing in others, how disagreeable they are, 
though in them, I ought as little as possible to 
attend to it. But let me watch myself a little, 
and discover, in order to reform, whatever I 
may have in me that makes me less agreeable, 
and therefore less useful, in society. 



REFLECTIONS 



ON 



WEDNESDAY, 



On the humble and religious 'Enjoyment of 
the Blessings of Life. 

" And God saw every thing that He had 
u made, and behold it was very good." 

Such was the face of tilings at the creation. 
Every view, that could be taken, was a view 
of order and beauty, of happiness and pleasure. 
Too soon, by the frailty and by the guilt of 
man, this happy state was changed; and 
through sin, death and misery entered into 
the world. Every part of our world was 
affected by the general disorder. The earth 
produced thorns and thistles. The seasons 
became unfavourable. The beasts grew wild 
and savage : and hence sprung a necessity of 
labour and self-defence. Toil and weariness 
must be ils natural consequence to bodies now 
become mortal and corruptible. Pain and 
sickness, the infirmities of old age, the fear 
of death and sufferings both for ourselves and 
our friends, with all that variety of evils that 



18 Reflections on Wednesday. 

burthen human life : all are the sad effects of 
sin. The disorder of our minds, the vehe- 
mence of our passions, the dimness of our 
understandings, those tendencies to evil, which 
even the best people, at some times, must feel 
strongly working in their bosoms, are the 
bitter fruits of the original corruption of human 
nature in the first of men, our common parent. 
Hence surely we should draw the strongest 
motives of humility, and throw ourselves 
down in the deepest abasement of soul, before 
that God of holiness, in whose " sight the 
" Heavens are not pure ; and who chargeth 
" his angels with folly." " How much more 
" man which is a worm, and the son of man, 
" which is a worm ?" Unassisted human 
nature could not be in a more perfect state 
than our first parents were created : infinitely 
superior certainly to whatever we can imagine 
of good or excellent among ourselves. If they 
were such frail, such wretched creatures, and 
so soon forfeited their very beings — Good 
God ! then what is the very best of us ! " Let 
" our confusion be ever before us :" Let the 
" shame of our face cover us." 

Strange it may seem, after these considera- 
tions to mention a happy and chearful enjoy- 
ment of our beings, as a serious and important 



Reflections on Wednesday. 19 

duty. Many good persons, who have deeply 
dwelt on this dark view of our mortal state^ 
have represented it as utterly unfit and sinful 
for such creatures, in such a world, to think 
of any thing but suffering and mourning* 
But as sure as our heavenly Father is good to 
all, and peculiarly so to us, his helpless new- 
adopted children, so surely they are widely 
mistaken *. The blessed promise of our re- 
demption was uttered in the same moment 
with the doom of our mortality, and from that 
moment all was good again. Pain, and 
suffering, ' and sorrow, became remedies to 
cure our corrupted nature : temptations, but a 
purifying fire to prove and to refine our virtue : 
and death, a kind release from toil, a happy 
admission into a better paradise. Through 
our blessed Saviour, we have obtained the 
grace of God to guide us in all our ways, and 
to support us under all our distresses. Through 
Him, in Him, we have every thing that can 
make us happy, unless we wilfully destroy 
ourselves. " Rejoice then, in the Lord, all 
" ye righteous, be thankful all ye who are 
" true of heart." 

* See this idea expanded, and its consequences shewn, 
in the Rambler, No. xliv, by Mrs. Carter; from which 
perhaps Miss Talbot took the hint. 

c2 



20 Reflections on Wednesday. 

Serious and careful indeed we ought to be, 
watchful and diligent, humble and submis- 
sive; reflecting deeply on the frailty and vile- 
ness of our nature, and the important, the 
eternal interest, that depends on this our short 
and very uncertain time of trial here. In this 
sense, we ought to " work out our salvation 
" with fear and trembling," and even to " re- 
" joice before the Lord w r ith reverence.'' 
But while we " keep innocence, and take 
'• heed to the thing that is right," let our 
chearful hearts and looks confess the goodness 
of our gracious Master, who " gives us rain 
" from Heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling 
" our hearts with food and gladness." Of 
Him, who has made every thing good and 
pleasant : who has the tenderest consideration 
for all our infirmities, and has provided every 
support, and every relief that can make our 
passage through this world tolerable and 
comfortable to us. With joyful gratitude let 
us accept and improve these his mercies, and 
indulgencies. Let us make this world as 
happy as we can to ourselves and one another: 
to do this, we need only be good Christians. 
Our w r ills being perfectly resigned, will 
acquiesce, without pain, in whatever dispo- 
sals Providence may see fit to make of us, and 



Reflections on Wednesday. 21 

ours : and taking " no thought for to-morrow," 
we shall neither be tormented with vain 
schemes, nor anxious fears, Our desires 
being moderate, we shall pass easily and 
quietly through life : and no unruly passions or 
vehement wishes, will discompose our peace. 
Being free from private interests and selfish 
views, we shall have no rivalries nor contests 
with our neighbours. Being in perfect cha- 
rity with all men, we shall w 7 ith all be easy, 
chearful, friendly : in every thing studying 
to promote their good and happiness : and in 
our turn receiving from many of them offices 
of kindness : and from such as are ungrateful, 
receiving the greatest benefit of all, a noble 
opportunity to exercise those duties, on which 
God's forgiveness of ourselves depends. With 
pleasure and complacence our heavenly Fa- 
ther looks down on every society of his chil- 
dren united in brotherly affection, and gives 
his blessing to every set of friends, and neigh- 
bours, and relations, that perform their mutual 
relative duties, as they ought, and love and 
delight in one another. Every innocent en- 
tertainment^ that keeps up the chearfulness 
and kindness of society, He approves. " The 
voice of joy and health is in the dwellings of 
the righteous." Our health can alone be 



22 Reflections on Wednesday. 

preserved by temperance, calmness, and in- 
dustry. Industry too makes the world look 
beautiful around us. It turns the barren 
wilderness into a fertile pleasant land : and 
for thorns and thistles plants the rose-tree and 
the vine : or sows the tender grass and useful 
corn. Industry preserves us from inclemen- 
cies of weather, and finds some means to sup- 
ply every want. It procures us wherewith 
to give alms to the poor, and thereby enables 
us to lay up a treasure in Heaven. 

Happiness, then, a great degree of it, is in 
our power, even at present. But fools that 
we are, we forfeit even present happiness, for 
the indulgence of every peevish, froward 
humour. Let me examine myself a little on 
this. As much as I condemn it, am I not 
often guilty of this unaccountable folly ? Am 
I not readier to cherish unkind suspicions of 
those I live amongst, than to put a fair, and 
favourable interpretation upon every disagree- 
able incident? Am I not almost upon the 
watch to take offence at every trifling disre- 
gard ? Do I not think it beneath me ever to 
take the first step towards a reconciliation ? 
Do I not make it a point of honour to keep up 
resentment, even though it pains me ? How 
much happier are they, who go through the 



Reflections on Wednesday. 23 

world with an easy good humour ! Never 
suspecting that any body means them ill, who 
does not really and seriously hurt them : pas- 
sing over every trifle: and by placing them- 
selves above all such peevish follies, main- 
taining more real dignity, than those who are 
the proudest. 



REFLECTIONS 



ON 



THURSDAY, 



The Duty and Manner of being useful in 
Society, 

" Blessed are the merciful, for they shall 
w obtain mercy.' 5 How greatly do we all of 
us need this blessing ; poor guilty creatures, 
who are every day offending infinite goodness, 
and provoking almighty power, and perfect 
justice ! How then shall we be merciful as 
we ought ? Can this duty be practised by any 
but the great, or the injured ? — In relieving 
the distrest, or in pardoning offenders ? Yes ; 
every one of us may practise it every day we 
live- It is a great mistake to think there is no 
superiority, but that, which rank and fortune 
give. Every one of us may in something or 
other assist or instruct some of his fellow-crea- 
tures : for the best of human race is poor and 
needy, and all have a mutual dependence on 
one another : there is no body that cannot do 
some good : and every body is bound to do 
diligently all the good they can. It is by no 



Reflections on Thursday. 25 

means enough to be rightly disposed, to be 
serious, and religious in our closets : we must 
be useful too, and take care, that as we all 
reap numberless benefits from society, society 
may be the better for every one of us. It is a 
false, a faulty, and an indolent humility, that 
makes people sit still and do nothing, because 
they will not believe that they are capable of 
doing much ; for every body can do some- 
thing. Every body can set a good example, 
be it to many, or to few. Every body can in 
some degree encourage virtue and religion, 
and discountenance vice and folly. Every 
body has some one or other whom they can 
advise, or instruct, or in some way help to 
guide through life. Those who are too poor 
to give alms, can yet give their time, their 
trouble, their assistance in preparing or for- 
warding the gifts of others: in considering, 
and representing distrest cases to those, who 
can relieve them : in visiting and comforting 
the sick and afflicted. Every body can offer 
up their prayers for those who need them: 
which, if they do reverently and sincerely, 
they will never be wanting in giving them 
every other assistance, that it should please 
God to put in their power. Even those 
whose poor and toilsome life can admit of 



26 Reflections on Thursday. 

their giving no other help to society, can by 
their frugality, and industry, at least keep 
themselves, in a great measure, from being 
burthensome to the public. A penny thus 
saved, is a penny given. Dreadful state of 
those idle creatures, who, dragging on a 
wretched, profligate life, in laziness and rags, 
draw to themselves those charities, that ought 
to support the helpless, and really disabled 
poor! Severely, I fear, shall they be account- 
able for it at the last day : and every one in 
proportion, who lives a useless and burthen- 
some drone in society. It is our duty to pre- 
vent poverty, as well as to relieve it. It is 
our duty to relieve every other kind of distress, 
as well as the distress of poverty. People 
who are always innocently chearful, and 
good-humoured, are very useful in the world. 
They maintain peace and happiness, and 
spread a thankful temper among all that live 
around them. 

Thus far in general : but it is well worth 
considering in particular my own duties and 
obligations. Who are the people that I ought 
especially to study to make happy ? Are they 
parents ? — What a debt of gratitude do I owe 
them, for all their care of me, and for me, in 
my helpless years ? How kindly did they bear 



Reflections on Thursday* 27 

with the froward infirmities of my childhood : 
and shall not I with most affectionate tender- 
ness support and relieve all those, which years 
and cares bring upon them ? My more active 
strength and vigour, my younger spirits and 
clearer thoughts, may now make me, in my 
turn, very helpful to them. If they are good 
people and good parents, I am sure this is my 
duty : if otherwise, I owe them one of still 
higher importance. I owe them the most 
earnest endeavours I can use for the reforma- 
tion of their faults, or instruction of their ig- 
norance. This duty extends to all my rela- 
tions : and to all from whom I have ever re- 
ceived any benefit, or any offices of friendship. 
If it is my misfortune that any of them should 
be bad people, though they have been good to 
me ; or if any of those who are related to me, 
are engaged in a wrong course of life, ought 
I to fly from them, and leave them to ruin ? 
No : gratitude and affection forbid it. Ought 
I then to encourage vice, and flatter folly, if it 
happens among those that I love ? This my 
higher duty to Almighty God, to truth and 
virtue, absolutely forbid. What then is to be 
done r To preserve the tenderest affection for 
their persons, and keep up and declare openly 
the strongest abhorrence of their faults. To 



28 Reflections on Thursday. 

avoid every degree and every instance of ease 
and familiarity, that may seem to give the 
least countenance to their vices ; and at the 
same time to employ every art, and every 
earnest endeavour, that can have the least 
chance of reclaiming them. To pray for, 
and pity them : to reprove, and advise them : 
to please and oblige them, in every thing J 
innocently can.-* — -But if, upon the whole, 
I find them irreclaimable, and myself in the 
least possible danger of being infected by their 
example,— then to fly them, as I would the 
plague; then to cut off a right hand, and 
pluck out a right eye *, and break through 
every fondness, and every attachment, that 
would destroy my highest, my eternal interest. 
No ties that subsist among human creatures, 
can be so strong, can be so dear, or ought to 
be so indissoluble, as those which for ever 
bind us to our Creator and Redeemer. 

Next to the bonds of nature, are those of 
choice. Married persons are bound to the 
observance of very sacred vows, and ought 
therefore often to recollect them, and examine 

* That is, rather to submit to every misery and mis- 
fortune that might befall me from the want of the support 
and assistance of my parents, than to endanger my salva* 
tkn. 



Reflections on Thursday, 29 

their conduct by them. Among other things, 
tliey should carefully consider, whether they 
have so strict a guard upon their temper as 
they ought, now the happiness of another 
person is made so greatly to depend on their 
easy good humour and chearfulness. Whe- 
ther they assist and improve one another: and 
whether they are ready to receive assistance 
and advice as kindly as to give it. Whether 
they preserve a delicacy of behaviour, a neat- 
ness of appearance, a gentleness of manner, a 
mildness of speech. Whether they enter 
kindly and affectionately into one another's 
interests and concerns. 

Friends should consider what engagements 
they are entered into with each other, how 
strictly they are bound diligently to promote 
each other's welfare : to think of one another 
candidly and kindly : to overlook little offen- 
ces, to bear infirmities: to repay kindnesses a 
thousand fold : to be watchful over each 
other's conduct : to be true, sincere, faithful, 
obliging, open, constant : and to have the 
generous courage of reproving and opposing 
each other's follies and faults. 

All persons should consider to whom they 
are accountable for their time, their labour, 
the superfluity of their fortune : to masters, to 



30 Reflections on Thursday. 

friends, to society in general, to the deserving, 
or the helpless poor. Rich persons owe a due 
portion of their riches to works of charity and 
to the public : the great owe their protection 
to merit : and all people owe it to themselves, 
to improve every moment, and every opportu- 
nity, this life affords them. 

Surely, while I am making these reflections, 
I cannot omit more literal debts, and more 
immediate duties. Do I owe money, I am 
not able to pay? Let me retrench every su- 
perfluous expence, till my real debts are paid. 
Let me work and labour indefatigably, till I 
am enabled to be honest : and let me not be 
one moment easy, while I unjustly live on the 
expence of other people, and am hurtful to 
the society, that ought to be the better for me. 

It is worth considering, too, what promises I 
have made. Were they ever so rash, if they 
engaged me in nothing contrary to innocence, 
it is my duty to fulfil them. Happy if it 
teaches me the wisdom, to be more cautious 
for the future. 



REFLECTIONS 



ON 



FRIDAY. 



On the Happiness of the present State, and 
the Self-denial required in it. 

" Blessed are they that mourn, for they 
" shall be comforted." Alas! does it not seem 
from this, and many other passages of Scrip- 
ture, worthy of all observance, and of all ac- 
ceptation, as if it was our bounden duty in 
this world to lead a melancholy, wretched, 
uncomfortable life? And can this indeed be 
the will of him who delighteth in mercy? 
Who filleth our hearts with food and gladness, 
and has, in not a few places, expressly com- 
manded us to " rejoice evermore?" Is there 
then, an inconsistency in the duties of reli- 
gion? God forbid! Yet short-sighted men, 
capable of taking into one view, but a part of 
the vast and perfectly consistent scheme of 
duty, and guided too generally by passion or 
weakness, are perpetually acting as if this 
was the case. Some free spirits there are, 

who throw off all lawful restraint, and fully 

5 



32 Reflections on Friday. 

satisfied with themselves if they keep within 
the widest bounds of what is just allowable, 
indulge without caution in every thing they 
think so. Their whole time is given up to 
mirth and jollity: their whole fortunes perhaps 
are spent upon themselves, without any regard 
to the calls of charity or duty. Jollily they 
go on in life, till some unforeseen misfortune 
stops them short, and throws a deep gloom 
over their sunny landscape. 

Another sort of people, much to be es- 
teemed, and greatly to be pitied, are scru- 
pulous about every thing; and, frighted by 
misapprehensions of some alarming texts, 
dare not allow themselves in the most inno- 
cent conveniences, and most harmless, and, 
on many accounts, useful and commendable 
pleasure. Their minds are so truly pious, 
that they are far from deliberately thinking 
of the infinitely great and good God, as a hard 
and rigid master; but they act with such a 
slavish fear, as must needs make those, who 
are less well-disposed, frame such horridly 
false imaginations of Him : and their well- 
meant strictness has the most dangerous ten- 
dency in the world. 

Between these two extremes, undoubtedly- 
lies the plain path of dutv: the narrow, but 

4 



Reflections on Friday. 33 

hot thorny road^ that leads through the truest 
comfort this life can afford, to everlasting 
happiness in a belter. 

The natural enjoyments of life are dispensed 
to us by a gracious Providence, to mitigate 
its natural evils, and make our passage 
through it not only supportable, but at fit 
times and seasons, so far pleasant, as to make 
us go on with vigour, chearfulness, and 
gratitude : and to give us some kind of earnest of 
what we are bid to hope hereafter, some kind of 
faint notion what happiness is : some sensible 
assurances, that there really is such a thing, 
though not to be, in any high degree, enjoyed 
on this side of the grave. — Still it is a yet 
more merciful dispensation of the same fatherly 
care, that pain and imperfection, satiety and 
disappointment, should be so mixed up with 
all our best enjoyments in this low state of 
being, as to turn our chief aim and desire to- 
wards heaven. And let us not fear, unless 
we wilfully and madly throw ourselves into a 
giddy round of pleasures, on purpose to be 
intoxicated by them, Providence will merci- 
fully interpose in the fullest tide of innocent 
prosperity, and make us, by some means or 
other, feel an emptiness and dissatisfaction, in 



34 Reflections on Friday. 

the best, this world can give : especially may 
this be hoped by those, who take care to keep 
their minds always open to such serious 
thoughts and right impressions, as will per- 
petually present themselves, if not rejected : 
and who reserve some leisure time in every 
day, for reading and reflecting. 

Our Maker knows so well the weakness of 
our frame, that he hath not left it to us, to 
inflict upon ourselves, merely by way of 
punishment, such sufferings as He sees it 
necessary for us to undergo. That task would 
be so hard a one, that He would by no means 
impose it upon us. No: He will take care 
himself, that we shall unavoidably feel and 
experience a great deal of that evil which sin 
introduced into the world : and all He require* 
of us, is to support it as we ought. He re- 
quires nothing contrary to reason, and the 
innocent inclinations of nature: if any of his 
laws appear harsh and difficult, it is from 
their opposition to our acquired habits, our 
prejudices and corruptions. To forgive inju- 
ries, to return good for evil, to live peaceably 
with all men, to be always mild, obliging, 
and good-humoured, to be kind and patient, 
charitable and industrious, temperate, sober, 
and modest ; these are no grievous laws to a 



Reflections on Friday. 35 

pure, and well -timed mind: nor can its 
genuine dictates be better complied with, than 
by observing them. Still, they will be a very 
grievous restraint on the licentiousness of our 
corrupted wills, our heightened passions, and 
indulged imaginations. To be continually 
attentive to our conduct in every minute in- 
stance, to set a watch before our mouth, and 
keep the door of our lips, to set scourges over 
our thoughts, and the discipline of wisdom 
over our hearts, requires a soberness of mind, 
a diligence, a resolute adherence to duty, that 
may undoubtedly deserve the name of self- 
denial^ and mortification : though in effect 
nothing so certainly ensures our happiness, 
both here and hereafter. To think we can 
do this by our own strength, would be pre- 
sumptuous and vain. Tell a man, helpless 
with the palsy, that perfect health is his 
natural and eligible state ; convince him ever 
so clearly how happy it would be for him to 
become active and industrious — your eloquence 
is mockery, and will not help him to the use 
of a single limb. But though we daily con- 
fess that we have " no health in us," He who 
did actually say to the sick of the palsy, 
" Arise, take up thy bed, and walk," and was 
immediately obeyed, can effectually relieve our 

x>2 



36 Reflections on Friday. 

still more helpless state. To this sovereign 
physician we can apply for help, and by the 
aid He imparts, are enabled to follow the 
regimen He enjoins ; and thus to a go on from 
" strength to strength, till unto the God of 
" gods shall appear every one in Sion." 

Though our comfortable passage through 
this life, and the attainment of unspeakable 
blessedness in another, are the allowed, the 
necessary, the enjoined objects of our pursuit, 
yet still, in a great degree, we are to renounce 
ourselves. By sincere humility we are to con- 
sider the vileness and wretchedness of our na- 
tural state : we are to acknowledge, that of 
ourselves we are able to do nothing as we 
ought ; and, far from indulging any thoughts 
of vanity or self-complacence, we are, when 
we have done our very best, to confess, with 
unfeigned lowliness, that we are unprofitable 
servants. We are to trust and hope alone in 
the merits and intercession of our blessed Re- 
deemer ; and to own ourselves " less than the 
6C least of God's mercies." As his creatures, 
we are to direct all our thoughts and actions 
to his honour and service. " Whether we 
€C eat or drink, or whatever we do, we are to 
" do all to the glory of God." In every 
thing we are to consider carefully the rule of 



Reflections on Friday. 37 

duty : not scrupulously or superstitiously, for 
that tends to the dishonour of God and reli- 
gion, as well as our own discomfort. We are 
never to do any thing for so low an end, as 
merely to gratify our own childish humour ; 
but in all cases, to moderate and guide our- 
selves by the rules of reason and reiigion. 
Thus, even in using the necessary refresh- 
ments, the easy amusements, and innocent 
pleasures of life, we are to behave with a due 
sense of that God, who is every where present 
We are to look up to Him with thankfulness, 
as the bountiful bestower of all good, and 
chearfully accept these indulgences for the 
ends to which he has appointed them. Food, 
to restore our strength wasted in active ser- 
vice, to preserve our health and ease: sleep, 
to renew our wearied spirits : pleasure, to 
gladden our hearts, and fill them with pious 
gratitude and filial love. This cuts off at. 
once all that intemperance that crosses those 
good purposes, destroys our health, distresses 
our hearts, makes our lives sluggish and use- 
less, and dissipates or corrupts our minds. 
Riches and honours also are to be received 
with thanksgiving, by whomsoever Providence 
allots them to ; but then they are to be dili- 
gently, and carefully, and generously employed 



3S Reflections on Friday. 

in the best purposes: and even the richest and 
the greatest ought to deny themselves all in- 
dulgences of mere humour and fancy, how 
well soever they may seem able to afford it, 
and kindly and faithfully consider the more 
pressing wants of their distressed fellow-crea- 
tures. To answer the purposes of charity the 
rich must be frugal, and the poor industrious ; 
and all give freely and discreetly, as proper 
calls require- Every body, in their turns, to 
maintain the peace of society and Christian 
concord, must repress the little risings of tem- 
per, and fretf ulness of humour ; must be ready 
to forgive and forget, to indulge and overlook. 
It is endless to go on enumerating instances, 
in which the just, the necessary adherence to 
our duty, requires us to deny our sinful selves. 
Our cowardice, our false shame, our vanity, 
our weakness and irresolution, our fondness 
and partial affection, our indolence and love 
of ease ; these, and numberless infirmities 
more, must be struggled with and conquered, 
when we are called out to encounter dangers ; 
to confess our Saviour before men: to with^ 
stand the strong torrent of custom and 
fashion, of importunity and ill example: to 
turn a deaf ear to flattery, or candidly acknow- 
ledge our errors : to resist solicitations : to give 



Reflections on Friday. 39 

righteous judgment: to forget all our private 
relations and attachments, where justice or 
public good are concerned : to resign our 
dearest enjoyments, when it is the will of God 
we should: to check our sorrows in their 
fullest flow; and to go on indefatigably im- 
proving ourselves, and doing good to others, 
tiil the night overtakes us, " in which no man 
(( can work." 

The sufferings which it shall please Al- 
mighty God to inflict upon us, we are to ac- 
cept with humble resignation ; acknowledging 
his justice, and submitting to it without a mur- 
mur. Thus patiently also we are to receive 
all the lesser crosses He sees fit to lay upon us ; 
nor ever suffer ourselves to fret or repine at 
the various infirmities of human nature, m 
ourselves or others. All these we must look 
upon as parts of that penalty justly inflicted on 
our first parents guilt; and heartily thank 
Him, that He does not, according to the ter- 
rifying notions of popery, either expeqt us to 
inflict them on ourselves, or give us the 
dreadful alternative of a purgatory after death. 
Uncommanded severities, that are ot'noappa^ 
rent use, but to torment ourselves, aod sour 
our natures, and shorten our lives, can never 



40 Reflections on Friday. 

be acceptable to our gracious Maker *. Our 
blessed Saviour, when He mentions fasting as 
*i duty, along with prayer and alms-giving, 
leaves the frequency and strictness of it to our 
pwn discretion ; and only insists upon one 
circumstance, which is, that we should avoid 
in it all hypocrisy and ostentation; and be 
careful to keep up all ease, good humour, and 
agreeableness of behaviour. There are very 
proper occasions for exercising this duty, 
without the least superstition or moroseness, 
^nd where it may tend to the best purposes. 
Public calamities, private distresses or temp- 
tations, perplexities and difficulties, times of 
peculiarly solemn devotion, and of resolutely 
endeavouring to conquer such obstinate faults 
and ill habits, as, like the dumb spirit in the 
Gospel, can " come out only by prayer and 
* f fasting." But where it makes us appear 
stiff and disagreeable, interferes with the inno- 

* Vengeance is mine ; J will repay, saith the Lord, 
Romans xii. 20. Surely then it must follow that we have 
no more right to revenge, or punish our own offences upon 
ourselves, than as private individuals we have upon our 
offending neighbour. In both cases it must be left to 
God ; for as we are unable to judge of the extent of the 
wrong doing, so neither can we of the proper measure of 
the deserved punishment. 



Reflections on Friday. 41 

cent chearfulness of society, or may influence 
our health or temper in any wrong way, in 
such cases it becomes a hurtful superstition, 
and as such unallowable. To observe the 
public fasts appointed by authority, in a man- 
ner suited to every person's strength and abi- 
lity, with decency and reverence, can have 
none of these evil consequences: and the 
practice of this duty, at fit times, and in a rea- 
sonable degree, is an excellent remembrancer 
of the wretchedness of being attached to any 
sensual gratifications, and the easiness as well 
gs necessity, at fit times, to forbear them. 



REFLECTONS 



ON 



SATURDAY. 



The Importance of Time in relation to 
Eternity. 

Another week is past ; another of those 
little limited portions of time, which number 
out my life. Let me stop a little here, before 
I enter upon a new one, and consider what 
this life is, which is thus imperceptibly steal- 
ing away, and whither it is conducting me? 
"What is its end and aim, its good and its evil, 
its use and improvement ? What place does 
it fill in the universe? What proportion does 
it bear to eternity ? 

This mortal life is the beginning of exist- 
ence to beings made for immortality, and 
graciously designed, unless by wilful guilt 
they forfeit it, for everlasting happiness. 
Compared with eternity, its longest duration 
is less than a moment: therefore its good and 
evil, considered without a regard to the influ- 
ence they may have on an eternity to come, 
must be trifling to a degree below contempt. 



Reflections on Saturday. 43 

The short scene begun in birth, and closed 
by death, is acted over millions of mcs, in 
every age ; and all the little concerns of mor- 
tality are pursued, transacted, and forgotten, 
like the labours of a bee-hive, or the bustle of 
an ant-hill. " The thing which hath been, 
" it is that which shall be, and that which is 
" done, is that which shall be done : and 
< c there is no new thing under the sun." 
Our wisdom, therefore, is to pass through 
this busy dream as calmly as we can ; and 
not suffer ourselves to be more deeply attach- 
ed to any of those transitory things, than the 
momentariness and unimportance of them 
deserves. 

But considering this short life as a proba- 
tion for eternity, as a trial whosfe issue is to 
determine our everlasting state, its import- 
ance to ourselves appears beyond expression 
great, and fills a right mind with equal awe 
and transport. The important day will 
come, when there shall be a new thing in- 
deed, but not " under the sun :" for " heaven 
" and earth shall pass away:" but the words 
of Him, who created them, " shall not pass 
" away." 

What then is the good or the evil of life, 
but as it has a tendency to prepare, or unfit 

7 



44 Reflections on Saturday. 

us for that decisive day, when " the Son 
" of man shall come in the clouds witli great 
" power and great glory, and shall send his 
" angels, and shall gather together his elect 
" from the four winds." That Son of man 
who is the Son of God, " blessed for evermore," 
and once before came down from heaven, and 
took upon him this our mortal nature, with 
all its innocent infirmities and sufferings ; and 
subjected himself even to the death of the 
cross, that he might redeem us from all our 
sins, and obtain the gift of everlasting life for 
all, who should not wilfully frustrate this last 
and greatest effort of divine mercy. 

What then have we to do, but with love 
and gratitude unutterable to embrace the 
offers of salvation ; and henceforth become in 
every thing His true and faithful disciples? 
To whom should we live, but to Him, who 
died for us ? To whom should we give up 
ourselves, but to Him who gave up himself 
for us? whose " yoke is easy, and his burden 
light." In whom should we trust, but in 
eternal truth ? In whom should we chearfully 
hope, but in infinite goodness? Whom should 
we copy, but him, who was made like unto us 
in all things, sin only excepted, and has left 
us an example that we should " follow his 

6 



Reflections on Saturday. 45 

steps?" Which if we do faithfully to the ut- 
most of our power, his grace shall so assist us 
that in the end we shall be where he is, to be- 
hold his glory, and partake his bliss. 

Let me think then, and think deeply, how 
I have employed this week past. Have I ad- 
vanced in, or deviated from the path that leads 
to life ? Has my time been improved or lost, 
or worse than lost, misspent ? If the last, let 
me use double diligence to redeem it. Have 
I spent a due portion of my time in acts of de- 
votion and piety, both private, public, and 
domestic ? And have they been sincere, and 
free from all mixture of superstition, mo- 
roseness, or weak scrupulosity ? Have I, in 
society, been kind and helpful, mild, peaceable 
and obliging? Have I been charitable, 
friendly, discreet ? Have I had a due regard, 
without vanity or ostentation, to set a good 
example ? Have I been equally ready to give 
and receive instruction, and proper advice ? 
Careful to give no offence, and patient to take 
every thing, in good part? Have I been 
honest, upright and disinterested? Have I, 
in my way, and according to my station and 
calling, been diligent, frugal, generous, and 
industrious to do good ? Have I, in all my be- 
haviour, consulted the happiness and ease of 



46 Reflections on Saturday. 

those I live with, and of all who have any 
dependence upon me ? Have I preserved my 
understanding clear, my temper calm, my 
spirits chearful, my body temperate and 
healthy, and my heart in a right frame ? If to 
all these questions I can humbly, yet confi- 
dently answer, that I have done my best : If 
I have truly repented all the faulty past, and 
made humble, yet firm, and vigorous, and 
deliberate resolutions for the future, poor as it 
is, the honest endeavour will be graciously 
accepted : And I may to-morrow, gladly and 
securely approach the sacred table, and par- 
take that bread of life, which our blessed Sa- 
viour gave, to nourish to all goodness those 
who receive it worthily, and to be not only 
the means of grace, but the pledge of glory. 
Amen ! 



ESSAYS 



ON 



VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 



ESSAY I* 



On the Employment of Time in the different 
Situations in Society. 

One scarce ever walked, with any set of 
company, by a neat cottage, but somebody or 
other has expressed their envy of the pastoral 
inhabitant. It is quite common, among peo- 
ple of easy and affluent circumstances to ima- 
gine, in a splenetic moment, every laborious 
situation happier than their own : and to wish 
an exchange with the plough-man, the shep- 
herd, or the mechanic. I have sometimes 
thought this an affectation : and a very false 
sentiment it surely is. For if all made the im- 
provement they ought of their own way of 
life, there can be little doubt, but the higher, 
and more leisurable stations would be, upon 
the whole, the happiest. That they rarely 
prove so in fact, is the fault of the possessors : 
who unable to avoid their necessary cares, 
and unindustrious to seek out their true 



50 Essay /. 

advantages, sink under a weight, that they 
might easily balance, so as not to feel it. 

What is generally called the spleen, is no 
other than the uneasy consciousness and dis- 
satisfaction of a mind formed for nobler pur- 
suits and better purposes, than it is ever put 
upon. Mere pleasure is an end too unworthy 
for a rational being to make its only aim* 
Yet persons, unconstrained by necessity, are 
so apt to be allured by indolence and amus#| 
merit, that their better faculties are seldom 
exercised as they ought to be : though every 
employment that serves no other purpose than 
merely to while away the present moment, 
gives the mind a painful sensation, that whe- 
ther distinctly attended to, or not, makes up, 
when frequently repeated, the sum of that 
satiety and tediousness so often lamented, in 
prosperous life. 

There is, doubtless, to many persons a real 
difficulty in making the choice of an employ- 
ment, when they are let perfectly at liberty, 
to chuse what they will. Necessity is perhaps 
the most satisfactory guide : and, for that rea- 
son alone, the artificer, the shepherd, and the 
farmer, are happier than their affluent neigh- 
bours. The poor man must either work or 
starve : so he makes the best of his lot ; works 



Essay i. 51 

ehearfully, and enjoys the fruit of his honest 
labour. The rich, the easy, the indolent, have a 
task as necessary, but not so obvious. There is 
room for some doubt, and uncertainty as to 
the way of setting about it. A life of sublime 
speculation is too high for the present state : 
a life of soft pleasure is too low. The right 
medium is a life busied in the exercise of 
duty: and duties there are peculiar to every 
^uation, and an enquiry into these is the 
leading one *. 

I was drawn into this speculation by having 
indulged, last summer, a whole week of idle- 
ness in a visit I made to an old acquaintance 
in the country. I, too, took it into my head 
one afternoon, to envy a poor man, who was 
hard at work for his livelihood mending the 
roof of a church, where he had some danger, 
as well as toil. I, who had been seeking 
out the coolest shade, and reclining on the 
greenest turf, amid the fragrance of a thousand 
flowers : I, who had leisure to attend to the 
warbling of birds around me, or in peace and 
safety might amuse myself with the liveliest 

* This is rather obscurely expressed. The meaning- 
seems to be, that an enquiry into each person's peculiar 
situation is his leading duty ; i.e. that duty, without pro- 
per attention to which he cannot practise the rest. 

E 2 



52 Essay r. 

wit and eloquence of Greece and Rome— 
would have resigned all these delights with 
joy, to sit whistling at the top of a high ladder 
suffering both heat and hunger. 

After ruminating much on so odd a phe- 
nomenon, I could find no better way of ac- 
counting for it, than from the preferableness 
of any allotted employment, to an inactive 
indulgence of selfish pleasure. It would 
therefore be worth while for all of us to consi- 
der what is our allotted employment, and sit- 
ting down contented with that, all might be 
more than tolerably happy, and no such great 
inequalities in the world, as are usually com- 
plained of. 

Not that all amusement and indulgence 
should be severely banished. When pro- 
perly and proportionably mixed with the more 
serious purposes of life, they become a part of 
duty. Rest and relaxation are necessary to 
health: the elegant arts refine our imagina- 
tions * : and the most trifling gaieties serve to 
cherish our good humour and innocent alacrity 
of heart. The enjoyment of proper delights 
fills us with gratitude to their all-bountiful 
dispenser, and adds to the bands of society a 

# — ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 



Emollit mores.— Ovid. 

4 



Essay /. 53 

flowery chain of no small strength, and does 
justice to a fair world, that is full of them. 
The number of them varies according to num- 
berless circumstances: but, in no circumstance, 
are mere amusement and relaxation to be con- 
sidered as the business of life, or to be substi- 
tuted for that real task, which, in some in- 
stance or other, is allotted to every state. 

Let then the shepherd enjoy his peace, his 
meadows, and his oaten pipe^. Let the 
honest artificer pursue his trade with chearful 
industry, and rejoice that the weight of states 
and kingdoms does not lie upon his shoulders. 
Let the man of a middle slation know his 
happiness, in possessing with quiet obscurity, 
all the comforts of society and domestic life, 
with leisure, and advantage for making the 
noblest improvements of the mind. Let the 
rich and great still look higher, and instead of 
repining at 

" Ceremony, the Idol Ceremony P" 

which debars them of those free and humble 
joys, delight themselves with their extensive 
power of doing good, and diffusing happiness 
around them, 

* Had Dr. Johnson reviewed tjiis Essay, all its moral 
worth would not have induced him to pass over the oaten 
pipe, without severe animadversion. 



54 Essay i. 

What an alternative is put into the choice 
of man ! By employment or misuse of the fa- 
culties assigned him, he may rise to what dig- 
nity, or sink to what baseness he will, in the 
class of moral beings. Human existence is an 
inestimable gem, capable of receiving what- 
ever polish we will please to give it : and if 
heightened with the diligence it ought, will 
shine in due time, with a lustre more dazzling 
than the stars *. 

It would not be fantastical (for its founda- 
tion is in truth and reality) to form a scale of 
nobility *f very different from the common 
distinction of birth, titles, and fortune ; and 
wholly according to that figure, persons 
make in the moral world, and according 
to their various degrees of improvement and 
usefulness. The change would not be total. 

* Is not this the very circumstance in which the true 
dignity of human nature consists ; the power inherent in 
each individual of exalting it to the highest degree of 
happiness with the capability of retaining that happiness 
even to eternity ? 

f This was humourously attempted in a late periodical 
publication, (probably either the Mirror or the Lounger) 
in a manner more remotely connected with morality ; in 
which bodily health is made the criterion of greatness ; 
and a man is said to deserve more or less respect, in pro- 
portion to the strength or weakness of his constitution. 



Essay i. 55 

Many, who are now high in life, would con- 
tinue so* : but not a few would be strangely 
degraded. 

Of what account indeed in the true system 
of life is he (be he what he will in greatness) 
who sleeps away his being in indolent amuse- 
ment ? Whose hours hang heavy on his hands, 
without the gaming-table, the bottle, the buf- 
foon, or the taylor? And whose mind amidst 
them all, is perpetually clouded with a splenetic 
discontent, the inevitable rust of unused fa- 
culties ? Uncomfortable to himself, and unim- 
portant to his fellow-creatures, whatever were 
his advantages of nature and fortune, he has 
degraded himself from them all. A day- 
labourer, who does his utmost at the plough 
and the cart, is a much more respectable 
being. 

In this scale, the miser's plea of poverty 
would be readily admitted, as witnessed by 
his anxious look and sordid life: while the 
frank heart and open countenance should be 
set down for the merit of a plum. 

Even the miser himself has a class of infe- 

* Miss Talbot's own character, as lias been observed in 
the Preface to the Letters between her and Mrs. Carter, 
forcibly illustrates this observation. Happily for the 
world there are still many instances of it. 



56 Essay /. 

riors, and that, without speaking of the dowiw 
right vicious, who come under another kind of 
consideration. These are the oyster-livers : 
such as lose the very use of their limbs from 
mere laziness, and waste year after year fixed 
to one uncomfortable spot; where they eat 
and drink, sleep and grumble on : while the 
duty of their situation properly attended to, 
would make them happy in themselves, and 
a happiness to others. Were the pearl taken 
ont of that unsightly shell, what a circulation 
of riches and ornaments might it make to so- 
ciety ! But while these poor animals can fatten 
on their barren rock, it matters not to them. 

If cowardice sinks persons lower than all 
other vices, beneath even these will come in 
the poor slaves of false shame, the mean de- 
serters of their duty. How many, that now 
pass for men of honour and spirit, would ap- 
pear more weak and timorous than female 
fear. Some not daring to refuse a challenge % : 
others drinking against inclination, or affront- 
ing religion against their own consciences : or 
prodigal of health and fortune, from merely 

* This was a favourite idea with Miss Talbot. See it 
farther illustrated in the Letters between her and Mrs. 
Carter, vol. i. p. 327, &c. which produced the story of 
Eugenio in the Adventurer. 



Essay i. 57 

wanting strength to resist the vain current of 
fashion. No black slave sold in a market is 
so far from liberty, as every one of these. 

In numberless such ways, does the bewil- 
dered race of man deviate from the paths of 
felicity and glory, and childishly squander 
away inestimable advantages. For just in 
proportion to the improvement of those facul- 
ties, with which heaven has intrusted us, our 
beings are ennobled, and our happiness 
heightened. The enjoyments of a mere ani- 
mal existence are flat and low. The com- 
forts of plain ordinary life, in those who have 
some feelings of the connexions of society, but 
no idea of any thing higher, rise in the next 
degree. The pleasures of an improved ima- 
gination take in a circle vastly wider and more 
fair. The joys of a benevolent heart animated 
by an active diligent spirit, refined sentiments, 
and affections justly warm, exceed the most 
gay imagination. The strong sense, and 
genuine love of truth and goodness 3 with all 
those noblest dispositions, that fill a mind 
effected and penetrated, as it ought to be, with 
a sense of religion, and practising every part 
of Christian duty, ascends still higher, and 
raises humanity to that point, from which it 
begins to claim a near alliance with superior 
natures. 



ESSAY IL 



On true Politeness. 

Politeness is the most agreeable band of 
society, and I cannot help attributing more ill 
consequences to the general disregard of it, 
than people, at present, are apt to attend 
to. Perhaps it may be so entirely laid aside, 
by the time that this manuscript comes into 
any body's hand*, that the page, which 
preserves some faint outlines of its resemblance, 
may be thought no unuseful one ; or at least 
by the lovers of antiquity, may be read with 
pleasure, as containing some curious remains 
of an elegant art : an art, that humanized the 
world, for many years, till the fine spirits of 
the present age thought fit to throw it off, as 
a narrow restraint, and a mean prejudice of 
education. 

* That time seems now to have arrived, when freedom 
has so generally usurped the place of politeness, and even 
gallant attention to the weaker sex has given way to ease 
not unfrequently degenerating into rudeness itself. If 
Miss Talbot's age deserved the censure contained in the 
text, what must be thought of the present. 



Essay if. 59 

Politeness is the just medium between form 
and rudeness. It is the consequence of a be- 
nevolent nature, which shows itself, to general 
acquaintance, in an obliging, unconstrained 
civility, as it does, to more particular ones, in 
distinguished acts of kindness. This good 
nature must be directed by a justness of senee, 
and a quickness of discernment, that knows 
how r to use every opportunity of exercising it, 
and to proportion the instances of it, to every 
character and situation. It is a restraint laid 
by reason and benevolence, upon every irre- 
gularity of the temper, which, in obedience 
to them, is forced to accommodate itself even 
to the fantastic laws, which custom and 
fashion have established, if, by that means it 
can procure, in any degree, the satisfaction, 
or good opinion of any part oi mankind. Thus 
paying an obliging deference to their judg- 
ment, so far as it is not inconsistent with 
the higher obligations of virtue and religion. 

This must be accompanied with an elegance 
of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least 
trifles, which tend to please or to oblige : i id 
though its foundation must be rooted in tue 
heart, it can scarce be perfected without a 
complete knowledge of the world. 



60 Essay n. 

In society, it is the medium, that blends all 
different tempers, into the most pleasing har- 
mony, while it imposes silence on the loqua- 
cious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish 
their share of the conversation, it represses the 
ambition of shining alone, and increases the 
desire of being mutually agreeable. It takes 
off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to 
wit. It preserves a proper subordination 
amongst all ranks of people, and can reconcile 
a perfect ease, with the most exact pro- 
priety. 

To superiors it appears in a respectful 
freedom ; no greatness can awe it into servi- 
lity, and no intimacy can sink it into a re- 
gardless familiarity. 

To inferiors it shews itself in an unassuming 
good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, 

not to let vou down to them. It at once 

*/ 

maintains the dignity of your station, and ex- 
presses the goodness of your heart. 

To equals it is every tiling that is charming. 
It studies their inclinations, prevents their 
desires, attends to every little exactness of 
behaviour, and all the time appears perfectly 
disengaged and careless. 

Such, and so amiable is true politeness, by 
people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts 



Essay it. 61 

disgraced in its two extremes : And, by the 
generality of mankind, confined within the 
narrow bounds of mere good breeding, which, 
in truth, is only one instance of it* 

There is a kind of character, which does 
not in the least deserve to be reckoned polite, 
though it is exact in every punctilio of beha- 
viour. Such as would not for the world omit 
paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the 
least circumstance of decorum : But then these 
people do this so merely for their own sake, 
that whether you are pleased or embarrassed 
with it, is little of their care. They have 
performed their own parts, and are satisfied. 
One there is, who says more civil things than 
half mankind besides, and yet, is " So obliging 
" that he never obliged." For while he is 
paying the highest court to some one person 
of the company, he must of course neglect the 
rest, which is ill made up, by a forced recol- 
lection at last, and some lame civility, which, 
however it may be worded, does in effect 
express only this, " I protest I had quite forgot 
" you : but as insignificant as you are, I must 
" not, for my own sake, let you go home out 
" of humour." Thus every one in their turn, 
finding his civility to be just as variable as his 



62 Essay ir. 

interest, no one thinks himself obliged to him 
for it. 

This then is a proof, that true politeness, 
whose great end is giving real pleasure, can 
have its source only in a virtuous and benevo- 
lent heart. Yet this is not all: it must ob- 
serve propriety too. There is a character of 
perfect good nature, that loves to have every 
thing about it happy or merry. This is a 
character greatly to be beloved, but has little 
claim to the title of politeness. Such persons 
have no notion of freedom without noise and 
tumult: and by taking off every proper 
restraint, and sinking themselves to the level 
of their companions, even lessen the pleasure 
these would have in the company of their 
superiors. 

Cleanthes too loved to have every body 
about him pleased and easy. But in his 
family, freedom went hand in hand, with 
order ; while his experience of the world, in 
an age of more real accomplishments, pre- 
served his whole behaviour agreeable to his 
company, and becoming his station. 

Certainly this regard to the different stations 
of life is too much neglected by all ranks of 
people. A few reflections will show this but 



9 



Essay it. 63 

too plainly. That the government of states 
and kingdoms should be placed in a few hands 
was, in the earliest ages of the world, found 
necessary to the well-being of society. Power 
gave a kind of sanction to the persons in 
whose hands it was vested; and when the 
peoples' minds were awed into obedience, 
there was the less need of punishments to re- 
strain their actions. Each various rank of 
them viewed, with profound respect, that 
which was most regularly beautiful : and the 
pile of government rose, in due proportion, 
with harmony in all its parts *• 

Very different is the present scene, where 
all sorts of people put themselves upon a level: 
where the meanest and most ignorant censure 
without reserve, the greatest and the wisest: 
where the sublimest subjects are scanned 
without reverence, the softest treated without 
delicacy. 

There was a time, when from this principle 
of politeness, our sex received a thousand de- 
licate distinctions, which made us as it were 
amends for our exclusion from the more 
shining and tumultuous scenes of life. Per- 

* If Mr. Burke never read these Essays, it is a curious 
circumstance that he should have made use of this same 
metaphor (though much more highly ornamented) in his 
admired work on the French He volution. 



64 Essay if. 

haps it is a good deal our own fault, that 
within some years, the manner of treating us 
has been entirely altered. When the fine 
lady becomes a hoyden, no wonder if the fine 
gentleman behaves to her like a clown. When 
people go out of their own proper character, 
it is like what silly folks imagine about going 
out of the conjurer's circle : beyond those li- 
mits you must expect no mercy* 

It would be endless to reckon up the various 
errors on each side of true politeness, which 
form humourists and flatterers, characters of 
blunt or ceremonious impertinence. But that 
I may give as true a standard of the thing it- 
self, as I am capable of doing, I will conclude 
my paper with the character of Cynthio, from 
whose conversation and behaviour I have pos- 
sibly collected most of the hints which form it. 

" Cynthio * has added to Ins natural sense 
a a thorough knowledge of the world : by 

# In one of Mrs. Talbot's Letters to Mrs. Carter, she 
says that she believes the character of Cynthio to have 
been meant by her daughter for Dr. Gregory; but she 
adds, that in her opinion the character flatters him very 
much. Dr. Gregory was a Canon of Christ-church, and 
had married Lady Mary Grey, with all the branches of 
which family Mrs. and Miss Talbot were very intimately 
acquainted. It is probable that Miss Talbot was a better 
judge of the minute and delicate circumstances on which 
true politeness so much depends, than her mother was. 



Essay it. 65 

" which he has attained that masterly ease in 
" behaviour, and that graceful carelessness 
u of manner, that no body, I know, possesses 
" in so high a degree. You may see, that 
" his politeness flows from something superior 
" to the little forms of custom, from a humane 
" and benevolent heart, directed by a judg- 
" ment, that always seizes what is just and 
" proper ; and formed into such an habitual 
" good breeding, that no forced attention 
" even puts you in mind, at the time, that 
u Cynthio is taking pains to entertain you, 
" though upon recollection you find him to 
" be, for that very reason, a man of the com- 
" pleatest politeness. 

" His conversation is alwavs suited to the 
" company he is in, yet so as never to depart 
" from the propriety of his own character. 
" As he is naturally indolent, he is generally 
" the least talkative of the set : but he makes 
" up for this, by expressing more in a few 
" words, than the generality of people do in 
Cf a great many sentences. He is formed in- 
" deed for making conversation agreeable; 
" since he has good nature, which makes him 
" place every thing that can have a share in 
" it, in the most favourable light that it is 
" capable of: and a turn of humour, that can 

F 



66 Essay ir. 

€: put the most trifling subject in some amusing 
" point of view. 

" In a large company, Cyntlrio was never 
" known to engross the whole attention to 
" some one favourite subject, which could 
" suit with only a part of it; or to dictate, 
" even in a small one. With a very quick 
" discernment, to avoid speaking or thinking 
u severely of the many faults and follies this 
li world abounds with, is a proof of an excel- 
" lent temper too, which can be no way con- 
? stantly supported, and made in its effects, 
€: consistent with itself, but upon the basis of 
" serious principles. 

" This then is the support of Cynthio's 
t( character, and this it is, that regulates his 
" actions, even where his natural inclination 
u would direct him differently. Thus, when 
" the welfare of the public is concerned, he 
CJ can assume a strictness, that carries great 
" awe with it, and a severity, that a mere 
H constitutional good nature would be hurt 
" by, though it answers the most valuable 
" ends of true humanity. Thus his natural 
<c indolence is allowed to show itself, only in 
" things of trifling consequence, or such as 
" he thinks so, because they regard only 
" himself: but whenever he has any opportu- 



Essay n. 67 

" nity of serving a friend, or doing a worthy 
" action, no body is so ready, so vigilant, so 
" active, so constant in the pursuit ; which is 
cc seldom unsuccessful, because he has a use- 
<c ful good sense, that directs him to the pro- 
" perest methods of proceeding. Upon such 
" an occasion, not the longest journey, or 
" most tedious solicitation, no appearance of 
" trouble or of clanger can discourage him. 

" Sincerity is so essential a part of friend- 
" ship, that no one so perfect, in its other 
" branches, can be wanting in that. But 
" how, you will say, can this be reconciled 
" with politeness? How can that, whose ut- 
" most care is never to offend, ever venture 
" upoii telling a disagreeable truth ? Why 
u this is one of the wonders, which a good 
" and a right intention, well directed* can 
u perform : and Cynthio can even oblige 
" people, by telling them very plainly of their 
« faults.' 1 

I perceive, I have wandered from my first 
intention, which was only to give a general 
sketch of this character, as influenced bv that 
humanity, whose consequence is such a desire 
of pleasing, as is the source of politeness. 
But before I have done with it, I must add 
this one distinguishing stroke, that though 



f 2 



68 Essay u. 

.many people may excel in separate good' 
qualities and accomplishments, more than 
Cynthio, yet I never saw them so equally pro- 
portioned, or so agreeably blended as in him, 
to form that whole behaviour that makes him 
the fittest example for an Essay on this sub- 
ject 



ESSAY III. 



On the Accommodation of the Temper to 
Circumstances. 

Let me be allowed to make a new word, 
and let that word be accommodableness. 

The disposition of mind, I mean by that 
word to express, is of such constant and uni- 
versal use, that it is certainly worth while to 
distinguish it by a name of its own. We 
English have not much of it in our nature, 
and therefore it is no wonder we have not an 
expression to suit it. It is such a flexibility 
of mind, as hinders the least struggle between 
reason and temper. It is the very height and 
perfection of good humour, shown as well in 
an instantaneous transition from mirth to 
seriousness, when that is best suited to the 
place and people, as it is in the liveliest flashes 
of gaiety. It is an art of sitting so loose from 
our own humours and designs, that the mere 
having expected, or intended, or wished a 
thing to be otherwise than it is, shall not, for 
a moment, ruffle our brows, or discompose 



70 Essay m. 

our thoughts. It is an art, for it requires 
time and pains to perfect it. 

All this is indeed included in what has been 
said of politeness, but it is worth dwelling 
upon in a new light. It is the means of 
making every trifling occurrence in life, of 
some use to us. For want of it, liking and 
luck are ever at cross purposes. To-day we 
are sad ; and then if we fall into a jovial com- 
pany, all their mirth seems displaced, and but 
grates upon our fancy. To-morrow, we are 
as whimsically determined to be merry : and 
then, how unsuited is our temper, to the 
scenes of sad improvement, we so often meet 
with ! How unfit are we then to commiserate 
the wretched, or to draw just considerations 
from the melancholy side of life ! 

This body, by some accident or other, we 
look upon in a light of prejudice : a foolish 
£tory told of them, or perhaps a disagreeable 
look, or a peculiar trick, makes us lose all the 
advantage, that might be had, by attending 
to their more valuable qualifications: for 
every body has some. — Another we despise, 
merely for our own ignorance of their worth. 
We look upon persons in a light of burlesque, 
from some ridiculous circumstance; when, 
perhaps, their serious character has something 



Essay in. 71 

really good in it, that is quite past over. I 
have felt it myself often : and that makes me 
dwell upon the subject, for I think, one al- 
ways talks best from experience. 

I have read somewhere a Fairy story, in 
which a princess is described, born under 
such a charm, that till she came to a certain 
age it was impossible she should ever enjoy 
any lasting satisfaction. The happiness of 
her ensuing life depended upon the observing 
this condition : and for that reason those 
Fairies, who had the care of her education, 
were most exact in their attention to it. Did 
she begin to take pleasure in any employment? 
It was immediately changed, and her appli- 
cation was called off to some new one. As 
soon as she had got over the difficulties of 
that, she was engaged in a third : and so on, 
year after year, till she was quite grown up. 
If any amusement was proposed, if she began 
to taste the least delight, in the splendour of 
a public show, or the gaiety of a rural land« 
scape, the scene was immediately shifted, and 
a dull solitude took the place of what had 
charmed her. 

Such is our situation in this world. In 
such a case, all the poor princess had for it, 
was to shift her inclinations, as fast as the 



72 Essay in. 

Fairies could her amusements : and when she 
had learned to do this, I think indeed, one 
might answer for it, that the rest of her life 
could not fail to be happy. 

Our humours and dispositions are certainly 
as various, as the accidents that happen to 
exercise them : but then, the misfortune is, 
that they are frequently misplaced. I have 
often been in a humour for moralizing and 
improving, when my fancy had much more 
properly been filled with gay images of an 
assembly : then, that idleness might not lose 
its due, how frequently have my thoughts 
wandered from a philosophical lecture, to a 
crowded park, nay sometimes from a sermon, 
to a ball-room ? 

To continue always in the same turn of 
humour, be it ever so graceful on some occa-* 
sions, is nothing better than dancing smoothly 
out of time. Some people have such an eter- 
nal simper upon their face, that they will tell 
you the most melancholy story, or express the 
most pathetic concern, with a smile. Others 
have such an earnest attention, that they will 
listen to a gossip's tale with the gravity of a 
philosopher. 

All have some good qualities, something or 
other, in their character or conversation, that 



Essay in. 73 

rightly attended to, we may be the better for. 
When in company with people of mere good 
humour, we should waken all the mirthful 
faculties of our mind, and take this time for 
unbending our more serious thoughts. We 
are not to consider whether one is of a proper 
rank, or another of an agreeable aspect, or 
whether we might not be better employed in 
our closets, or better engaged in company 
elsewhere: but accommodate ourselves to the 
present situation, and make the best of it. 
Be the company ever so dull, they are human 
creatures at leasts capable of feeling pleasure, 
or uneasiness, in some degree, of being ob- 
liged or disobliged : and therefore, if we are 
ever so dissatisfied ourselves, if we may con- 
tribute any way to the satisfaction of our 
stupid companions, good nature will find it 
jio disagreeable employment, and it may well 
enough be put in the balance, against most of 
those, we are so angry to be interrupted in. 

Had I set my heart on such a favourite 
scheme ? and am I disappointed ? This is 
what children well educated can bear with 
great good humour, and are rewarded with 
sugar-plums. Shall people then, who have 
the use of reason, and the pleasure of reflec- 
tion upon reasonable actions, be more childish 



7i Essay nr. 

than they, and add one disagreeable thing to 
another, by tying ill-humour to the heels of 
disappointment ? 

The mind, that is absolutely wedded to its 
own opinions, will cherish them to a degree 
of folly and obstinacy that would be incon- 
ceivable but for frequent instances: very fre- 
quent ihdeed in this country, which is reck- 
oned, I believe justly, to abound in humour- 
ists, more than almost any nation of the ha- 
bitable globe. Whether this be one effect 
attending on the glorious stubbornness of the 
spirit of liberty, or whether we take some 
tincture from the November sullenness of the 
climate, I know not: but our want of ac- 
commodableness is very perceivable in the 
reception which our common people usually 
give to foreigners. Their language is ridi- 
culed, their manners observed with a haughty 
kind of contempt : all minds seem to sit aloof 
to them, as if they were enemies, encroachers, 
that have nothing to do amongst us, no right 
to give us trouble, or put us out of our way. 

If we would but learn to put ourselves a 
little in the place of others, we should soon 
learn, with pleasure, to suit ourselves to their 
disposition. But we are apt to imagine, that 
every body must see every thing, just in the 



Essay m. 75 

vSame light that it appears to us : if they do 
not, it is very strange, and they are no com- 
panions, for us. Thus, it seems monstrous, in 
a foreigner to speak our language oddly, when 
we are so perfectly acquainted with it our- 
selves. We are prodigiously inclined to think 
people impertinent, for asking questions about 
what we know very well ourselves : unless in- 
deed we happen to be in a humour of dicta- 
ting and instructing, and then it is a crime of 
the same nature, for people to know any thing 
before-hand, that we have a mind to tell them. 

Thus we forget our first opinions of places, 
things, and people, and wonder that others do 
not, at first sight, perceive them, in the same 
light that we do, just at that time: though 
perhaps it is by dint of reflection, that we have 
placed them in it. It may however be speak- 
ing too generally to say we. I am sure I have 
often experienced this in myself. 

It was the distinguishing character of a poor 
idiot, whom I had once occasion to see a good 
deal of, that he had so little of this accomo- 
dableness, as to be quite outrageous, upon the 
least alteration, in any trifling circumstances, 
lie had been used to observe. He exprest his 
anger, in one way indeed, and we express ours 
in another, or perhaps are wise enough to 



76 Essay in. 

keep most of it to ourselves : but there still 
remains enough to take off all the grace of 
what we do, or submit to, thus unwillingly, 
and the principle of folly, that makes us feel 
so strong a dislike, is the same in both : only 
this poor creature deserved pity, while in us, 
it is a matter of choice. 



ESSAY IV, 



On Delicacy of Feeling. 

There is no one disposition of the human 
heart that affords such exquisite pleasure, or 
pain, as that which we call delicacy. It is 
the polish of the mind, soiled by the least 
breath, and affected by the slightest touch, 
A delicate turn of thought is, in some cases* 
extremely agreeable ; is the sign of a valuable 
mind, (for base metals are not capable of re- 
ceiving any great degree of polish) but will 
not go half so well, through the world* as that 
which is more plain, and rough. 

Yet, as there is something in this disposition 
peculiarly elegant and amiable, people are 
apt to encourage themselves in it, till from a. 
grace, it becomes a weakness, and diffuses 
unhappiness to all around them, who must 
weigh with the exactest care all their words 
and actions : and it is extremely possible, that 
all their care may not be enough to prevent 
giving some grievous offence, which they 
never meant, and which will express itself in 
perpetual smartnesses, or an eternal flow oS 



7B Essay ir. 

tears, according as the constitution of the 
delicate person inclines to anger, or to melan- 
choly. In the latter case it is more unhappy 
than in the former : for hasty anger is easily 
past off; but no body of good nature can bear 
to see a person affected, in the most painful 
manner, by things so trifling, as they may be 
guilty of, every moment, without knowing any 
thing of the matter. 

This consideration should make us ex- 
tremely careful in our behaviour, to those, 
amongst whom we live. Perhaps some little 
heedlessness of ours, may seem a most cruel 
slight to one, we never intend to grieve, and 
oppress a worthy mind with the most melan- 
choly dejection. A careless word, spoken 
quite at random, or merely by rote, may give 
a delicate heart the most anxious distress : and 
those of us, who have the most prudence and 
good nature, say and do an hundred things, 
in our way of talking, about characters* we 
know little of, or behaving towards those, to 
whom we little attend, that have much more 
grievous consequences, than we are aware of. 

But then, on the other hand, we should, in 
ourselves, most strictly guard tigainst all ex- 
cess of this delicacy ; and though we cannot 
help feeling things, in the quickest manner, 

4 



Essay if. 79 

for the moment, we should arm our reason 
against our feeling, and not permit imagina- 
tion to indulge it, and nurse it up into a mi- 
sery : for misery if indulged, it will certainly 
occasion : since an excess of delicacy is the 
source of constant dissatisfaction, through too 
eager a pursuit of something every way higher 
than is to be had. 

The person of delicate judgment sees every 
thing, as it were, with a microscopic eye : so 
that what would be a pleasing object, to a 
common spectator, is, to him, unsupportably 
coarse and disagreeable. The person of 
lively and delicate imagination disdains the 
common routine of comfort and satisfaction ; 
and seeks for happiness in an airy sphere not 
formed to give it: or pursues misery, through 
a wild and endless maze, which at every 
turning grows more inextricable, liy this 
refined delicacy of sentiment, to put ourselves 
on so different a footing, from the rest of the 
world, that it is scarce possible, we should ever 
understand one another, is only vain vexation. 

In friendships especially, this excess of deli- 
cacy is often of fatal ill consequence. From 
hence spring suspicions and jealousies ; from 
hence arise doubts and disquiets that know 
no end, unless it be, th.at they often quite 



80 Essay it. 

weary out the patience of the persons, whom 
they are thus perpetually teazmg for their 
affection. I have known instances of this 
kind, that are sufficient warnings against it. 

As for the affairs of common life, they can 
scarcely go on where every little nicety is to 
be turned into a matter of importance. I 
knew a family, good, agreeable, sensible, and 
fond of each other, to the highest degree : but 
where each was so delicate, and so tender of 
the delicacy of the rest, that they could never 
talk to one another, of any serious business, 
but were forced to transact it all, by means of 
a third person, a man of plain sense, and a 
common friend to all. 

Poor Lucius ! How much constraint and 
real uneasiness does he suffer from the delicacy 
that proceeds from having a genius infinitely 
superior to most he meets with. By having a 
mind above the low enjovments of this state 
of being, he is deprived of many hours of 
most innocent cheerfulness, which other 
people are happy in. He has an understand- 
ing, so fitted for the deepest researches, and 
the sublimest speculations, that the common 
affairs and engagements of life seem vastly 
beneath him. He has a delicacy, in his turn 
of mind, that is shocked every day, by the less 

7 



Essay if. 81 

refined behaviour and conversation of the ge- 
nerality of mankind: and it must be a very 
chosen society indeed, that he prefers to his 
beloved solitude. This disposition gives him 
a reservedness, that in another character, 
might pass for pride, as it makes him mix less 
freely in those companies, that he is unavoid- 
ably engaged in. However it has certainly 
this ill consequence, that it makes his virtues 
of less extensive influence, than they would 
be, if they were more generally known. He 
is naturally, extremely grave, and perhaps 
with the assistance of reason and experience, 
which prove the insufficiency of any pleasures 
or attainments, in this life, to make us happy; 
this seriousness is heightened so as to give 
himself many a gloomy moment, though other 
people never feel the effect of it, by any ill hu- 
mour, or severity towards them. A turn of 
mind so superior to any of the common 
occurrences, or amusements of life can seldom 
be much affected or enlivened by them : but 
as so excellent an understanding must have 
the truest taste for real wit, so no one has a 
more lively sense of ail, that is peculiarly just 
and delicate. These pleasures, however, are 
little compensations for the much more fre- 
quent disgusts, to which the same turn of inind 



82 Essay if. 

renders him liable*. Happy, thrice happy 
are those humble people, whose sensations are 
fitted to the world they live in. 

Those pleasures, which the imagination 
greatly heightens, it will certainly make us 
pay dear enough for : since the pain of parting 
with them, will be greatly increased, in full 
proportion, not to their value, but to our en- 
joyment. The world was intended to be just 
w r hat it is ; and there is no likelihood of our 
succeeding in the romantic scheme of raising 
it above what it is. To distract ourselves 
with a continual succession of eager hopes, 
and anxious fears, is a folly destructive to our 
nature, and to the very end of our being. We 
are formed for moderate sensations either of 
pain or pleasure; to feel such degrees of 
uneasiness only as we are very able to support: 
and to enjoy such a measure of happiness, as 
•we may easily resign, nay thankfully too, when 
religion has opened the prospect to a brighter 
scene : to meet with many rubs and difficul- 
ties, which we must get over, or stumble over, 
as well as we can : to converse with creatures 

* This character of extreme delicacy and high- wrought 
feelings, so unfit for the common purposes of life, may 
perhaps remind the reader of that of Fleetwood in the 
Mirror. 



Essay ir. 83 

Imperfect, like ourselves, and to bear with all 
their imperfections. It seems then, that the 
only way of passing through life, as we ought, 
is to place our minds in a state of as great 
tranquillity, as is consistent with our not 
becoming stupid. 



@2 



ESSAY V. 



On the Employment of Wealth. 



fn. 



The advantages of frugality do not deserve 
to be less considered than those of generosity i 
for where, alas ! shall bounty find its necessary 
fund, if thoughtless prodigality has squandered 
it away. When I hear of thousands, and ten 
thousands, spent by people, who in the midst 
of immense riches reduce themselves to all the 
shifts and pinches of a narrow fortune, I 
know not how to recover my astonishment at 
the infatuation, that leads them to annihilate 
such treasures : for it may really be called 
annihilating them, when they are spent to no 
one good purpose, and leave no one honour- 
able memorial behind them. A fortune thus 
lavished away becomes the prey of the worth- 
less : and is like a quantity of gold dust dis- 
persed uselessly in the air, that might have 
been melted down, and formed into regal 
crowns, and monuments of glory. 

I think one now scarcely ever hears an im- 
mense fortune named, but somebody adds, 
with a shake of the head — It is vastly rim 



Essay r. 85 

out — He is in very narrow circumstances— 
They are in great straits. — Ask the occasion, 
&nd you will find few instances of real gene- 
rosity, or public spirit, or even of a well- 
judged magnificence: but all has gone amongst 
voters, fiddlers, table companions;, profuse 
servants, dishonest stewards, and a strange 
rabble of people, that are every one of them 
the worse for it. This is pitiable: and for 
this, and nothing else, a man of quality 
is reduced to all the meannesses imaginable. 
He must be dependent: he must court the 
smiles of power : he must often be rapacious 
and dishonest. 

I remember a friend of mine had once an 
excellent conceit of a cave, at the upper end 
of which were two enchanted glasses, with 
curtains drawn before them, that were to be 
consulted every evening in order for the form- 
ing a judgment of the actions of the day. The 
first glass showed what they might have been, 
and what effects such and such opportunities 
ought to have produced. When the curtain 
was undrawn before the other, it showed, 
tout au naturel, what they had been. Were 
one to contemplate, in these glasses, on the 
spending one of those great estates, which 
reduce our fine people to such difficulties, 



$6 Essay jr. 

what a coup d'ceil the first would present! A 
wide track of country adorned and improved ; 
a thousand honest families flourishing on their 
well cultivated farms : I cannot tell whether 
one should not see a church or two, rising in 
a plain sort of majesty amidst the landscape. 
In- another part of it, would appear manufac- 
tures encouraged, poverty relieved, and mul- 
titudes of people praying for the welfare of the 
happy master. His tradesmen, his domestics, 
every body that had any connection with faina, 
would appear with a chearful and a grateful 
air. They, in their turns, would dispense 
good and happiness to all, with whom they 
had any concern. At the family seat, would 
be seen an unassuming grandeur, and an 
honest hospitality, free from profuseness and 
intemperance : one may say as of Hamlet's 
two pictures, 

Such should be greatness : — Now behold what 

follows : 
For here is fortune, like a mildew'd ear, 
Blasting each wholesome grain 

In the true historical glass, what may we 
see ? Perhaps a pack of hounds, a cellar, an 
election. Perhaps a gaming-table, with all 
those hellish faces that surround it. An artful 



Essay r. 87 

director perhaps, and an indolent pupil. Op- 
pression gripes every poor wretch within its 
grasp, and these again oppress their own 
inferiors and dependents : all look hopeless 
and joyless: and every look seems to conceal 
a secret murmur. On the fore-ground perhaps 
there stands a magnificent palace, in the 
Italian taste ; innumerable temples, obelisks, 
and statues rise among the woods : and never 
were Flora and Pomona, Venus and Diana, 
with all the train of fabulous divinities more 
expensively honoured in Greece and Rome> 
than in these fairy scenes*. Tke Church in 
the mean time stands, with a wooden tower : 
the fields are poorly cultivated, the neighbour- 
hood discontented, and ever upon the catch 
to find all possible faults in those proud great 
ones, with whom they have no cheerful friendly 
intercourse. Fine cloathes, and costly jewels 
glitter, perhaps, in some part of the glass : but 
how can they adorn faces grown wan with 

* It might almost be supposed that Miss Talbot was 
here giving a real description of the beautiful seat of the* 
late Lord Le De Spencer, at West Wycombe ; but that a 
handsome new church there is placed on a hill, as an object 
from the house. The indignant question of Horace there- 
fore does not apply to this case ; 

Quare 

Templa ruunt antiojiia Deum.?- 



68 Essay r. 

inward care: or give gracefulness to those, 
who must always have the humbled air of 
inferiority, when they happen to meet t!>e 
eye of their unpaid tradesmen, whose families* 
are starving upon their account ? 

The man of thoughtless good nature, who 
lavishes his money to a hundred potfr devils, 
(as is the genteel phrase to call those, that have 
run themselves into misery from mere worth- 
lessness) I say, when wretches, that deserved 
only punishment and ignominy, have drained 
this generous sieve of ail he had to bestow, to 
what grief ho is. exposed, when he meets with 
an object of veal distress, one that has, perhaps, 
been ruined through his means, and is forced 
to say with the fine gentleman, in Beaumont 
and Fletcher, 

" I wanted whence to give it, yet his eyes 
Spoke fox him ! These I could have satisfied 
"With some unfruitful sorrow"—- — 

Would it not be quite worth while for any 
body to avoid such uneasinesses as these, when 
it can be done merely by a little thought, and 
a little order? Methinks an exactness of 
method, and a frequent review of our affairs 
would make every thing perfectly easy. Might 
it not be possible for a man of fortune to 

4 



Essay r. 89 

divide his estate into several imaginary 
parcels? And, appropriating each to its 
particular purpose, epeud it, within those 
bounds, as freely, and with an air as open, as 
the thoughtless prodigal : and yet be sure 3 by 
this means, never to run out, and never to 
bestow upon any one article more than it 
deserved, 

I will suppose myself at this present pos-» 
sessed of ten thousand a year : nor will the 
supposition make me at all vain, gentle reader, 
since it implies but the being a steward * to 
other people, and a slave to propriety. Oh it 
is ten times the more indolent thine: to have 
but a little, and yet the same kind of manage- 
ment is required in all. Well : but what 
shall I do with this estate of mine ? First of all 
I buy me a large and pompous account book. 
Then I consider how much must necessarily 
be employed in mere living: and I write 
down the sum total, on the first page. This 
is afterwards subdivided into its proper distinct 
articles : and each of them has a page allotted 
to itself. And here it must be observed, that 

* If the possession of wealth was indeed considered in 
this light, the owners of it might perhaps sometimes recol- 
lect that their hooks must at last be examined. — Give an 
account of thy stewardship, $c. Luke xvi. 2, 



00 Essay r. 

there are innumerable proprieties of appear- 
ance, as indispensably necessary to the rich 

man, as bare food and eloathing to the poor. 
The other pages of the book most each have 
their title at top, as thus : Charities 1000/. — 
For the Service of my friends, and of the 
Public, 10GQL— For proper Improvements of 
my Houses, Gardens, Estates, iOOOZ. and so 
on. I doubt whether knick-knacks, cabinets, 
or any immoderate expences, in jewels, plate, 
or pictures*, would find a place in such a list 
as this. 

It would surely be easy, by frequently 
comparing the daily articles of expence under 
each head, with the determination marked at 
top, to keep every one within bounds, and to 
enjoy what is in our own power, without, in 
the least, pining after what is not : For that 
we may read the precepts of the stoics: and 
for the other, let us consider, a little, those 
instances, we may see all around us, of good 

* It should be observed that it is not the purchase of 
these articles that is here censured, but immoderate ex- 
pence incurred in them. For if it be proper that the arts 
should be encouraged at all, it must be by the liberality of 
the opulent ; but it by no means follows that they should 
so distress themselves for that purpose, as to have nothing 
left for more essential and necessary pursuits, 



Essay r. 91 

characters disgraced by an ill-judged saving- 
ness in some insignificant particulars, and by 
a want of ease and propriety, in trifling ex- 
pences. 

If people have any esteem for frugality, 
they should try to do it honour by showing, 
that it is not inconsistent with a becoming and 
a generous spirit. I have heard very many 
people accused of covetousness, and generally 
hated, under that odious character, who per* 
haps had no principle of that kind, and who 
threw aw r ay, often, as much upon foolish ex- 
pences, that had not struck them in the saving 
view, as they pinched out of others, which 
made them look paltry and mean in the eyes 
of the world. Few people, I believe, are 
heartily covetous throughout : and this makes 
it so easy for them to flatter themselves, that 
they are not tainted at all with a vice, the 
very notion of which would affront them : and 
for those in the other extreme, they too deceive 
theselves in the same sort. Whence comes 
the old proverb, 

Penny ivise and Pound foolish. 



ESSAY VI. 



On the Importance of Riches. 

There are a great many things, that sound 
mighty well in the declamatory way, and yet 
have no sort of truth or justness, in them. 
The equality between poverty and riches, or 
rather, the superior advantages of the former, 
is a pretty philosophical paradox, that I could 
never comprehend. I will grant very readily, 
that the short sleeps of a labouring man, are 
full as sweet and wholesome as the slumbers 
indulged upon down beds, and under gilded 
roofs. I will readily confess, that let people 
have never so many apartments, they can be 
but in one at a time : and in a word, that the 
luxury and pageantry, that riches bring with 
them, is despicable, and infinitely less eligible, 
than the simplicity of plainer life. It must be 
owned too, that greatness and fortune, place 
people in the midst of innumerable difficulties: 
and that they are severely accountable for all 
those advantages, they neglect to .improve. 
But so 3 indeed, a man is a owe accountably 



Essay ri, 93 

creature than a bog: and yet none but a 
Gryllus, I believe, would prefer the situation 
of the latter. 

I do not say, that people should upon all 
occasions, put themselves forward, and aspire 
to those dangerous heights, which perhaps, 
they were never formed to ascend. The fable 
of Phaeton would be much more instructive 
than such a lesson as this : but I would say, 
and say it loudly, to all, whom heaven has 
placed already in the midst of riches and ho- 
nours, that they possess the highest privilege, 
and ought to exert themselves accordingly. 
These people have advantages of improving 
their being to the noblest purposes : and with 
the same deg'ree of pains and application, that 
furnishes the poor artificer a daily provision 
for himself, and his family, they may become 
a kind of beneficent angels to their fellow- 
creatures, and enjoy themselves, a happiness 
superior to all pleasure. 

It is a pretty thought of Seneca, that as a 
merchant, whose goods are considerable, is 
more sensible of the blessing of a fair wind, 
and a safe passage, than he that has only bal- 
last, or some coarse commodity in the vessel ; 
so life is differently enjoyed by men, according 
to the different freight of their minds. Those 



94 Essay vi. 

of indigent fortunes are generally obliged to 
have their's too much filled, with an attention 
to provide the low necessaries of life. Indeed 
riches and greatness are as strong an obstacle 
as the other, to spending life in theory and 
speculation : but it is, however nobler, and a 
more delightful task to provide for the general 
good of multitudes, than for the subsistence 
of as few individuals. I speak of what riches 
might be : God knows, not of what they are. 

The rich, the great, who act an insignifi- 
cant part in life, are the most despicable 
wretches of the whole creation : while the 
poor, the mean, the despised part of mankind, 
who live up to the height of their capacity 
and opportunities, are noble, venerable, and 
happy. 

Is it not amazing, that creatures so fond of 
pre-eminence and distinction, so biassed by 
interest, so dazzled by fortune, as all the race 
of men are, should so blindly trample under 
foot the only true advantages of fortune ? The 
only pre-eminence, the only honour, the high- 
est joy, the brightest lustre, that all those gay 
things they pursue, could bestow upon them ? 
Where is the beauty to be found, that will 
choose to waste her youth where no eye can 
behold her? Where is the man of wit that 



Essay vi« 95 

will sit down contented with his own admira- 
tion, and lock up his papers in a chest for his 
own private reading? Yet the covetous man, 
as far as in hi in lies, conceals the advantage 
he is fondest of, and pats himself, as much as 
possible, upon a level with that poverty he 
despises. Good Heaven I that people should 
not rather choose to lay hold on every honest 
means, that can raise them into a kind of 
superior being. Who would not go through 
toil, and pain, and danger, to attain so glo- 
rious a pre-eminence, an honour beyond the 
Olympic crown of old. And yet it is but at 
the expence of a little openness of heart, a 
little thought and contrivance, a little honest 
generous industry in bestowing properly, that 
a man of rank and fortune may shine out like 
the sun, and see a gay world flourishing under 
his cheerful influence. 

All these things have been said a hundred. 
times. The miser has been painted in all his 
unamiable colours : and the prodigal has had 
his lecture too. But still, methinks, there is 
a great deal wanting, and I do not know how 
to express it. The indolent, the thoughtless 
people of fortune, want to be put in mind 
of their own importance. Some are so lazy, 
some so careless, and some even so humble. 



96 Essay ri. 

that they never once think of themselves as 
having any place to fill, or any duty to per-* 
form, beyond the immediate calls of domestic 
life* Alas what a mistake is this ! and what 
noble opportunities do they neglect ! 

But what must people do ? They must 
awaken in their minds that principle of acti- 
vity and industry which is the source of every 
thing excellent and praise-worthy, they should 
exert themselves in every way, improve every 
occasion, employ every moment. Let the 
great survey the whole scene, the whole 
sphere of their influence, as the master-farmer, 
from a rising-ground, overlooks the whole of 
his estate. The labouring hinds indeed are 
confined to a spot : they have their daily task 
appointed, and when that is done, may lay 
them down to sleep without a further care. 
But the master must wake, must consider and 
deliberate. This spot of ground wants better 
cultivation : that must be laid out to more ad- 
vantage : a shade would be becoming here : 
in yonder place I mean to lead the little ri- 
vulet, that wanders near it, to refresh those 
parched meadows. Those husbandmen should 
be encouraged: these should be rewarded. — 
A word, a look, a gesture from a superior, is 
of importance. Thus might the rich, the 



Essay ri. 97 

great, the powerful, consider in like manner. 
" This part of my fortune will be nobly em- 
" ployed in relieving the miserable : that, in 
" works of public generosity: so much in 
" procuring the agreeable ornaments of life: 
" in this manner I may encourage the elegant 
" arts : by this way I may set off my own 
" character to the best advantage : and by 
" making myself beloved and respected, I 
" shall consequently gain an honest influence 
" over such as may be bettered by my good 
" example : my advice, my approbation will 
" be useful in such a case : in this I may do 
" honour to my country : in that" — Up and 
employ yourselves, you who are lolling in 
easy chairs, amusing away your lives over 
French novels, wasting your time in fruitless 
theory, or your fortunes in riotous excesses. 
Remember, you have an important part to 
act. It is in your own choice whether you 
will be, the figure in the tapestry, the ani- 
mated chair * or flower-pot, or the hero that 
draws the whole attention of the theatre, and 
goes off with a general plaudit. 

* See Spectator, No. 22. 



H 



ESSAY VIL 



On Literary Composition. 

Without at all pretending to criticism, it 
is almost impossible to read a variety of books, 
and not form some reflections on the variety of 
style in which they are writ. One of the first 
and most obvious, to me, is, that the plainest 
and least ornamented style is ever the most 
agreeable to that general taste, which is cer- 
tainly the best rule, by which an author can 
form himself. Particular ornaments will not 
more please some fancies, than they will dis- 
please others. The flowery epitheted way of 
writing wearies the imagination, by presenting 
it with a multitude of wrong objects, in way 
of simile and illustration, before it has half 
informed the understanding, of what was its 
main purpose. 

The human mind has so long a journey to 
take, in search of knowledge, that it grows 
peevish at being led out of the way, every 
minute, to look at prospects, or gather daisies. 
The original use of epithets was to paint ideas 
5 



Essay rn> 99 

stronger upon the mind, by a complication of 
little circumstances : but, I know not how, of 
late, they are grown into a sort of unintelligi- 
ble language, that signifies nothing more to 
the slightly attentive reader, than, that the 
author has a mind to be poetical ; like those 
Indian alphabets, which first were the plain 
representation of sensible objects, from thence 
grew into hieroglyphics, and last of all into a 
mere cypher. 

The common sort of metaphorical epithets 
is very disagreeable. When we would in- 
dulge our fancies with the idea of a cool limpid 
running stream, to have a piece of crystal 
thrown across one's way is quite provoking. 
I remember two lines, in a very good poem, 
that offended me, 

and strew 



Her silver tresses, in the crystal tide. 

Would not the image be more natural, and 
make less clatter in one's head, thus : 

and strew 

Her hoary lock, wide floating o'er the stream. 

Gold and Jewels do not become the muse 

herself, half so well, as an elegant simplicity,, 

But elegant it must be, and noble, or else the 

style of writing degenerates into mere chit-chat 

L. h 2 



100 Essay ru. 

conversation. Nor should a writer think it 
any restraint, that he is obliged to attend to 
the minutest strictness of grammar: since 
whatever serves to make his composition most 
clear and intelligible, contributes to the giving 
it the greatest beauty it can possibly have. 
For this reason, too long sentences, and the 
intricacies of parentheses ought, by all means 
to be avoided, however the sun-like genius of 
some authors, may have gilded those clouds 
into beauty. 

This one rule of perspicuity will hold good, 
for all sorts of people, from those of mere 
business, to those of absolute speculation. 
The next is, that writers put no constraint 
upon their natural turn of mind, which will 
always give a truer spirit than is within the 
reach of any art. Yet often from an admira- 
tion of that in others, which is utterly unsuit- 
able to themselves, they put on a character in 
writing, that is mighty difficult to support 
throughout. The affectation of wit and 
humour leads into that low burlesque, which 
is, of all dulness, the most disagreeable. 
Unable to reach the true sublime, they are 
willing to bring it down to their own pitch. 
Hence spring such multitudes of travesties, 
parodies, and such like perversions of passages 



Essay vu. 101 

really fine: when, if they can but present you 
with low, and often dirty images instead of 
such as are noble and beautiful, yet in such a 
manner, as strongly to put you in mind of the 
difference, all the way, they are greatly con- 
ceited of their own ingenuity. Where any 
of these have real humour in them, it must 
arise from some particular occasion ; and is by 
no means inherent in that kind of composi- 
tion *. 

But while little wits think, that lowering 
and debasing the sublime, is being witty, 
those, who with an exalted genius, have a 
sportive liveliness of temper, can find means 
of ennobling their easiest and lightest compo- 
sitions. Of all people Mr. Prior has succeeded 
the best, in this way, if he had not, now and 
then, allowed his pen too much licence- for the 
demureness of the muse. As Homer's dreams 
were the dreams of Jupiter, so Prior's gaieties 
are the sportings of Apollo : and where he in- 

* Such also was the opinion of her friend Mrs. Carter, 
who had so great a dislike to parodies and travesties that 
she could rarely be persuaded to read them, and when she 
did received no amusement from them. She used to say 
that they shewed a squint or perversion of mind in the 
author, which hindered him from seeing the beautiful or 
sublime in its true colours . 



102 Essay vu. 

troduces his fabled deities, in a mirthful scene, 
it is not by depressing them to the level of 
merry mortals, but by employing (to use the 
phrase of an excellent modern author) " a 
" new r species of the sublime that has, hitherto, 
" received no name." 

There is a celebrated passage in Longinus, 
in which he prefers, upon the whole, a mix- 
ture of striking faults and beauties, to the flat 
correctness of an uncensurable, laboured au- 
thor. One of the books which, to those, who 
for want of translations can know little of. 
Isocrates and Demosthenes, has most convin- 
cingly proved the justness of this determina- 
tion, is Dr. Barrow's Sermons, who seems 
most exactly to answer what Longinus says 
of the irresistible Greek orator. His ex- 
pressions are frequently singular, and though 
crouded together, are so poured out from the 
abundance of one of the best hearts, that the 
finest turned periods are insipid in comparison. 
His genius too, whatever were the littlenesses 
of language, in those days, was certainly 
poetical and noble: and his imagination so 
warmed and delighted with the fairest view 
of every thing in the scheme of Providence, 
that religion wears, through every page of 
his, its proper grace. 



ESSAY VIIL 



On Prior's Henry and Emma, 

To enliven an airing, the other morning, 
Prior's Henry and Emma was read aloud to the 
company : and the different sentiments they 
exprest upon it, determined me, to put down 
my own upon paper, as that Poem has always 
been a favourite with me, and yet wants, I 
think, a good deal of explanation, and ex- 
cuse. 

The tale is introduced, in a way so much 
more interesting, than one commonly meets 
with, in pastoral dialogues; with circumstances 
of such tenderness and delicacy, and images 
so smiling and engaging, that one is concerned, 
before his characters have said a word, to have 
them keep up to the ideas, which partial ima- 
gination has formed of each. That of Emma 
is distinguished by something so peculiarly 
mild and affectionate, that if we do not attend 
to this, as her chief characteristic,, we shall 
be apt to be surprized at many of her most 



104 Essay vm. 

beautiful sentiments, as too different from the 
common ways of thinking on such occasions. 

Emma susceptible of soft impressions, be- 
yond what were to be wished in a character, 
where it set up for a general pattern, her 
soul entirely turned to those tender attach- 
ments, that are not inconsistent with strict 
virtue, had long been wooed with every irre- 
sistible art by an accomplished youth, whose 
virtues and excellencies could not but discover 
themselves in such a space of time, on a 
thousand occasions. By the characters given 
on each side, their passions seems to have 
been grounded on a just esteem : and the 
known truth, and goodness of Henry, had 
produced in her mind, such an unlimited con- 
fidence, that it was impossible she could sus- 
pect him of any crime. To try her constancy, 
he accuses himself, in the harshest terms, as a 
murderer : but it was easy for Emma's heart 
to furnish him with sufficient excuses. The 
wild unsettled state of the island, in those 
early times, torn by so many, and so fierce 
factions, involved the young and brave, in 
perpetual bloodshed. What was called valour 
in one party, would, in the other, be branded 
as murder. In those days, the vast forests 



Essay rm. 105 

were filled with generous outlaws: and the 
brave mixt with the vile, from a likeness of 
fortune, not of crimes *. 

I have dwelt upon this, because, at first 
reading, it offended me to imagine, that Emma 
should be so unmoved with a supposition of 
her lover's guilt, and continue her affection, 
when she must have lost her esteem. That 
point, I think, is now cleared up : but I am 
extremely sorry, that to prevent all scandal, 
Prior did not alter a few lines, in the answer 
she makes him, to his open declaration of 
inconstancy. In spite of all prejudice, there 
is certainly a want of all spirit and delicacy in 
it. If what he told her was fact, he could not 
be faultless, nor could her affection continue 
to be innocent. The same mild benevolence 
to her rival, might surely have been exprest 
without the extravagance of desiring to attend 

* An ingenious conjecture of Dr. Whitaker, that Henry 
Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, was the hero of" the 
" Nut-brown Maid," cannot be supported, because that 
ballad was printed in 1502, when Henry Clifford was only 
nine years of age. There is however some reason to sup- 
pose that his father Henry, Lord Clifford, might be the 
Poet's Henry. For this curious and interesting enquiry, 
see Censura Literaria, Vol. VII. Article XX. 



106 Essay vm. 

them as a servant. Permit me to insert the 
alteration here. 

" Go then, while I, in hopeless absence prove 

" By what I shall endure, how much I love." 

This potent beauty, this triumphant fair, 

This happy object of our different care, 

Her shall my thoughts, thro' various life attend, 

With all the kindness of the fondest friend : 

Lov'd for thy sake, howe'er her haughty scorn 

May triumph o'er me as a thing forlorn ; 

For her my warmest ivishes shall be made, 

And Heav'n implor'd for blessings on her head. 

O may she never feel a pain, like mine ! 

Never — for then a double guilt were thine. 

Here must I stay : like thought, were actions free "} 

No wrongs, no hardships should divorce from thee > 

Thy Emma, — not a rival's company. J 

But wandering thoughts, and anxious cares are now 

All that a rigid virtue will allow. 

Go happy then, forget the wretch you leave, 
Nor for a woman's weakness vainly grieve. 
Thy fate decreed thee false : the same decree 
Entail'd a hopeless constancy on me. 

The few following lines, in the same speech 
are so easily adapted to these, that the change 
in them is not worth mentioning. 

There is something infinitely beautiful in 
all the tender passages of this Poet. He has 
the art of representing all the softness of the 
passion, without any of its madness. Other 



Essay vm. 107 

writers raise their expressions, with such 
hyperboles, as are a profanation of much 
nobler sentiments. Methinks softness and 
tenderness are the only characteristics of a 
mortal love. The strains of adoration ill 
become Anacreon's lyre : and are ill addrest 
to human imperfection. Those imagined 
everlasting attachments, that rebel against 
mortality ; those infinite ideas, that grasp at 
all excellence, in one finite object, are fatal 
absurdities, that have both their guilt and 
punishment. 

This kind of sentiment is quite unnecessary : 
we may survey those we love, surrounded with 
all the frailties and imperfections of human 
nature, and yet be partial to these imper- 
fections, as we are to our own. Pity does but 
endear the tender tie, where it is not incom- 
patible with esteem. The pleasures of giving 
and receiving, from the dear object of affection, 
mutual protection, comfort and relief, are the 
joys that we are formed most sensible of, as 
such a disposition was, in our present situation, 
most necessary for the preservation, and 
happiness of society. 

The expressions of this kind of sentiment 
are, on the other hand, as offensively misused, 
when applied to sacred subjects, as they 



108 Essay pin. 

too often are by the soft enthusiasm of consti- 
tutional Pietists *. Of human love, kindness, 
compassion, mutual care, mutual assistance, 
mutual forgiveness of a thousand little ble- 
mishes and errors, are necessary ingredients, 
have their merit, and their reward. All that 
refined caprice, that shows its kindness, like 
Alicia in Jane Shore. 

u In everlasting wailings, and complainings," 

is as contrary to this system, as it is to the 
happiness of whoever is honoured by its perse- 
cution : and proceeds from a failure, in point 
of confidence, which when once the honour 
of a character, justly esteemed worthy, is 
seriously engaged, should remain unshaken as 
a rock. This is prettily exprest, by Prior's 
Celia, 

Reading thy verse, who heeds, said I, 

If here, or there, hisglances flew, 
O free for ever be his eye, 

Whose heart to me is ever true. 

Another great, as great a contradiction to 
the amiable kind of temper, that Prior de- 

* Surely this opinion ought to have much weight, when 
proceeding from a writer of such uniform and acknow- 
ledged piety : and they who talk of loving their Saviour, 
in such terms as they would use concerning their fellow- 
creatures, would do well to consider it. 



Essay riti. 109 

scribes, is that violent detestation upon even 
just cause of offence, which so much too often 
verifies the poet's expression, 

Heaven has no curse, like love to hatred turn'd, 
Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd. 

The hatred of anger can justly proceed only 
from injury Real, premeditated injury can 
proceed from no such character, as could ever 
be the object of a well-placed love : and there- 
fore, in this last, the injury retaliates on a per- 
son's own mistaken choice : who has there- 
fore no more reason to be angry with the 
other, for not acting up to an ideal perfection, 
than to be displeased at any other instance of 
wrong behaviour in those, who never were 
the objects of any just partiality. 

But if the character be mixt, faulty indeed, 
but not totally bad, pity methinks should gladly 
take hold on the occasion, and banish, at 
once, all bitterness of resentment. Religion 
itself forbids the spirit of uncharitable anger 
and revenge. When there has ever been a 
real affection *, it can never, I fancy, be so 

* If Miss Talbot be right, this may be the proof of the 
reality of the affection ; but it is a proof which cannot be 
given, till the affection has been shewn to be misplaced by 
the injury suffered. 



110 Essay rui, 

rooted out, as to give place to those hateful 
emotions. 

Whoever then yield up their minds to these 
excesses, must confess their former partiality 
to have been founded merely in pride, vanity, 
and selfishness: for kindness and benevolence 
will never cease to exist, whilst their objects 
remain, in any degree unchanged. If those 
objects were only our dear selves, every dis- 
appointment of our pride, interest, and vanity, 
will wound us to the heart. But if our 
thoughts had a more generous aim, if the 
happiness of one dearer than ourselves, was 
the centre of our wishes, we shall joyfully 
acquiesce in any means, by which that happi- 
ness may be attained, laying ourselves entirely 
out of the case : and should the injury to us, 
be ever so grievous, we shall only wish for 
them, with the same diisnterested ardour, 
Aristides did for the Athenians, who had 
banished him, that the time may never come, 
when they shall repent it *. 

* It may perhaps admit of a doubt whether such perfec- 
tion of disinterested attachment be ever really felt, and still 
subsist after the circumstances that caused it have ceased 
to exist. Possibly the feeling in Aristides' heart, very 
contrary to his words, might be the hope that a time would 
come when the Athenians should repent of their conduct 



ESSAY IX. 



On the Separation of Friends by Death. 

I know nothing more common, and almost: 
unavoidable, than the disposition of censuring 
those manners and inclinations in others, 
which we are sensible would, in our own 
tempers, be faulty, or which lie cross to the 
bent of our natural humours. Yet I am per- 
suaded, in many of these instances, were we 
to make but common allowances for the 
difference of constitution, of situation, of know- 
ledge, and of perception, we should find, ac- 
cording to a good-natured French saying, 
that tout le monde a raison. 

That tenderness, which we feel for a true 
friend, is, in some minds, so inseparably 
blended with every idea, that the dearer half 
of every enjoyment is liable to be torn away 
at once, and the stroke of a moment shall 
cast its gloom over the longest years of life. 
Kindness and gratitude, the very laws of con- 
stancy, and the frame of human nature, seem 
to exact of us this melancholy return, for all 



112 Essay ix. 

that refined and superior happiness, which in 
such an union, we have enjoyed. 

I cannot help imagining, however, that 
there may be a good deal of reason on the 
contrary side : and as one never is so sensible 
of the force of reason, as when it is heightened 
by the eloquence of some present feeling; so 
this came most strongly into my head, during 
some solitary hours of illness, that very lately 
put me in mind of such an eternal separation 
from my friends. The enjoyments of life are 
what, I believe, all persons of serious thought, 
would easily resign for themselves, when they 
are sure, at the same time, to be freed from its 
disquiets. But, to think that we may carry 
away with us, into the grave, all the joy and 
satisfaction of those, to whom we ever wish the 
most ; and leave them behind us, in a world 
where every support is wanting, entirely desti- 
tute of any (of any such, I mean, as the ordinary 
methods of Providence have appointed) is the 
only reflection, which, at such a moment, can 
disturb the composure of an innocent and 
religious mind. 

I do not know how far the pride of giving 
pain may extend, in some people, but for 
myself I protest, that as earnestly as I wish to 
be remembered with a kind esteem, I could 



Essay ix. 113 

not bear the thought of that remembrance 
being a painful one. For this reason, I was 
summoning up, in my mind, all that might 
be alledged, for what I used to eall lightness 
of temper, and found it much more, than I 
had imagined. 

Indeed, if the persons we lament, were 
truly dear to us, we ought for their sakes, to 
restrain that immoderate sorrow, which, if 
they could behold it, we are sure, that it 
would be with the utmost concern. This, 
however, is an argument, that will by no 
means hold, in all cases : but there are others 
more general. I will not argue that so- short 
a life, as ours, seems to contradict the idea of 
eternal attachments : because I cannot help 
flattering myself that they may be continued, 
and improved through every state of being*. 
But that they ought to be so moderated, as to 
contradict no purpose of the state, we are at 
present placed in, is a truth, that will scarcely 
be denied. The inferiority of our station, the 
frailty and imperfection of our nature, make 
submission to unerring wisdom, one of our 
first duties : and how do we set ourselves up, 

* Mrs. Garter seems to have been of the same opinion. 
— See the Memoirs of her Life, First Edition, page 473. 



114 Essay ix. 

in opposition to it, when upon withdrawing 
any one blessing, however kindly to us, we 
stubbornly determine to shut our minds 
against every other, which it indulgently con- 
tinues ! 

Yet after all these considerations, the cha- 
racters of Arachne and Maria still surpass 
me, though they no longer give me the disgust 
they used to do. To hear them talk, with 
the greatest good nature of any present object 
of compassion, otherwise ever so indifferent 
to them : to see how really they are affected 
by every little instance of kindness, and how 
happy they are in every trifling amusement, 
one would imagine them extremely susceptible 
of impressions. But then, in the midst of a 
gay conversation, to hear them run over, 
without the least emotion, a long list of once 
intimate friends, and then go on as earnestly 
about trifles, as if such people had never been. 
— It is impossible not to wonder at their happy 
constitutions, and eternal flow of spirits. 
When I tell you, I really esteem these women, 
shall I be reckoned severe, if I say they are 
ingenious, without parts, and good humoured, 
without sentiments ? 

Theagenes is scarcely less happy, in his 
frame of mind, but more so, in his strength 



Essay ix. 115 

of reason. His genius is the most extensive, 
his imagination the most flowery that can be: 
and these supply perpetual employments for 
his mind, diverting it from too deep an atten- 
tion to melancholy subjects. His temper is 
really generous and benevolent: this makes 
him interested in every body's welfare, that 
comes within his reach : and such an activity 
of mind is the surest food of cheerfulness. As 
some people are peculiarly turned to amuse 
themselves with the oddnesses and deformities 
of natures, Theagenes has an eye for its 
beauties only. His speculations wander over 
the great objects of the universe, and find 
something curious, in the detail even of me- 
chanic arts. In characters, he often errs on 
the favourable side ; and by this means, some- 
times loses too much, the distinction of different 
kinds of merit, and subjects himself to a 
friendly laugh. As he looks upon the world 
with a philosophic, and a grateful eye, he 
can find something endearing, in whatever 
part of it he is placed ; like a strong plant 
that will take root and flourish, in every soil. 
When one set of acquaintance is swept away, 
by time, his social temper unites itself with 
the next, he falls into ; and is to be considered 



116 Essay ix. 

in this view, like a drop of water, which, 
though separated from its native stream, yet 
naturally blends with any other mass of the 
same element, while disunited it would lose 
its use, and its very being. 



ESSAY X. 



On Self-Love. 

It is a reigning maxim, through all the 
works of Epictetus % that every body may be 
happy if they please : and the desire of being 
happy, is but in other words, the definition of 
such a virtuous and reasonable self-love, as 
was originally implanted in us, by the Author 
of our nature, for innumerable wise and 
gracious purposes. No part of our consti- 
tution was given us, without important reason: 
and therefore it were folly to suppose this of 
so essential a one as self-love : but how often 
it errs, in its aim, and in its degree, there 
needs no instance to prove ; nor that when it 
does so, it is of all other principles the most 
mischievous, as it is ever the most active. 

Violent declamations, either for, or against 
any thing of the great frame of nature, serve 

* This Essay therefore must have been written after 
the year 1752, in which Mrs. Carter finished her transla- 
tion of the works of that Philosopher, which she sent to 
her friend in manuscript. — See her Memoirs, p. 119, 
1st edition. 



118 Essay x. 

but to shew an injudicious eloquence, which 
by proving too much, in effect proves abso- 
lutely nothing. Even passion may be im- 
proved into merit*: and virtues themselves 
may deviate into blameable errors. Unbiassed 
reason, if such a thing there be, in this mixt 
state of human nature, surveys both sides at 
once, and teaches us to moderate our opinions, 
to draw the proper advantages, from every 
circumstance, and carefully to guard against 
all its dangers. 

The same principle of self-love, that adds 
new fire and strength to every passion, when 
the loose reign is given up to fancy, at other 
times checks our indulgence of those passions, 
and pursuits, by making us reflect on the 
danger, and pain, that attends them. The 
same tie, that so closely binds us down to our 
own interest, makes us sympathize, in the 
fortunes of our fellow-creatures. By self-love 

* In passion itself, abstractedly considered, is neither 
merit nor demerit. It is either the reward of virtue from 
the delight which attends the practice of it, or else it is 
the means to an end. If regulated by duty and principle, 
it leads to good, and to the enjoy men t of the gratifying 
feelings resulting from it; if improperly indulged, it be- 
comes the handmaid to every vice, the inlet to every mi= 
sery. 



Essay x. 1 1 9 

we learn to pity in others, what we dread, or 
fear for ourselves. In this balance we weigh 
their distresses with our own : and what self- 
love has shown us, under the name of such, 
to ourselves, we shall always suppose the 
same to every one else, and kindly commiser- 
ate the sorrows we have felt. 

Self-love endears virtue to us, by the tender- 
ness it gives us, for whatever degree of it we 
perceive in ourselves : and in the same way, 
makes us look with a peculiar charity on those, 
whose faults are of the same kind with ours. 
Every body has, I believe, a favourite virtue, 
and a favoured weakness, which being first 
used to in themselves, they are sure to give 
quarter and applause to, in every one else. 
By this partiality, particular friendships are 
generally determined. 

There is a lower degree of it, which would 
be quite ridiculous, if that too had not its va- 
luable use in connecting human kind together. 
As we grow any way acquainted with people, 
though sometimes it is only by character, 
sometimes even by some circumstance of no 
more signification, than having sat at the same 
table: received, or paid some trilling mark of 
civility, nay even having it to say, that we 
have seen them, we assume a kind of pro- 



120 Essay x. 

perty in them. Such is the importance, 
which the least connexion, with our dear 
selves, can give to whatever we please, that 
if we have seen people, but one single time, it 
makes often a wide difference in our way of 
attending to what is said about them. Re- 
collect but any conversation you have been 
in, where persons though of very little conse- 
quence, have been talked of, and I dare say 
you may remember, that two or three of the 
company, immediately fell to recollecting such 
idle circumstances in their knowledge of them, 
as could receive no value, but from that 
knowledge itself. 

This disposition, I think, shows how much 
we were intended to mix in life : and it must 
be a strong reason, that will draw the same 
advantages for practice, from the enlarged 
views, given by reading and speculation, which 
even the commonest understandings are titled 
to receive, from their natural constitution. 
If these are neglected, we fall into a thousand 
faults, of which every one carries its own 
punishment along with it. People who con- 
fine themselves strictly, to a small circle of 
acquaintance, are in great danger of contract- 
ing a narrowness of mind : while those, who 
enter freely into society, gain by it such an 



" Essay x. 121 

ease, and openness of temper, as makes them 
look upon every interest and pleasure, to be 
in some degree, their own. 

The great, who live immured, as it were, 
within the inclosures of their vast possessions, 
look upon those of a lower rank, as inhabitants 
of a distant world from themselves. If ever 
they have any thing to do with them, it is 
matter of constraint and uneasiness, and 
therefore never can be done with a good 
grace. Their sentiments and amusements, 
are something delicate and mysterious, that 
the vulgar are not supposed capable of appre- 
hending, but are to be kept at an awful dis- 
tance, which, if ever they leave, it is insuffer- 
able intrusion. 

All distinct sets of people are apt to consider 
themselves as separate from the rest of man- 
kind. Hence the perpetual enmities and 
prejudices of different professions : hence the 
continual opposition of parties, sects, and 
ages : hence the general censures, thrown at 
random, on all. When once what we have 
censured and laughed at, comes to be our 
own case, we learn to make those reasonable 
allowances, that, before, we never so much as 
thought of. 

A beauty, that has been severely used by 



122 Essay x. 

the small-pox, learns to esteem people, for 
something more than the person. A misre- 
presented character can allow a great deal 
for the uncharitableness of people's opinions, 
and think mildly of a blemished one. The 
age, which at fifteen, seemed almost antedi- 
luvian, grows strangely supportable, as we 
approach it : and Lysis, in an airy dress, no 
longer ridicules people that go without hoods, 
after thirty.— I grow trifling. This subject 
of self-love, affords matter of serious reflection 
and gratitude. It is surely one of the greatest 
marks of infinite wisdom, that what, at first 
sight, may seem only to regard ourselves, is 
one of the strongest ties to social virtue : and 
that the very attention to others, which should 
seem most contrary to our first notions of self- 
love, is indeed, the truest support, and most 
rational pursuit of it, and which alone can 
preserve it from degenerating into miserable 
weakness and folly. 

Man, like the gen'rous vine, supported lives, 

The strength he gains is from the embrace he gives. 

On their own axis, as the planets run, 

Yet make at once, their circle round the sun. 

So two consistent motions act the soul, 

And one regards itself, and one the whole. 

Thus God and nature link'd the general frame, 
And had self-love, and social be the same. 

Pope, 



ESSAY XL 



On the Principle of Self-interest as applied to 
Education. 

I was making a visit the other day, to peo- 
ple, that passed for what are called your very 
sensible clever folks. They have a large fa- 
mily of children, of whom they seem fond 
without indulgence : and to he sure they edu- 
cate them mighty well. Who is more capable 
of doing it? They are prudent, have good 
sense, and know a great deal of the world : but 
alas, it is this knowledge of the world, as they 
call it, that spoils every thing. " Come hither, 
u my dear," (said the lady of the house to a 
little girl about five years old, who was crying 
to go out of the room almost as soon as she 
came in) " come hither Lucy. Look ye my 
" dear, if you will behave yourself prettily, 
" and go and talk to all the company, papa 
" will give you a fine new doll to-morrow." — 
This you may be sure, stopt the crying for the 
present. But what will be the effect of it? 
Every time Miss Lucy wants a new plaything, 
she has onlv to misbehave herself, and she is 



124 Essay xr. 

Sure of being bribed into good humour again. 
Thus by an excess of good management in 
her mamma, the little gipsy will be taught to be 
artful and peevish, at an age, whose greatest 
ornament is innocence and good humour. 

Two or three instances more, of the same 
kind of prudence, had quite awakened my 
sincerity, and I could not forbear speaking of 
it, with the freedom of an old acquaintance, 
as soon as the more formal part of the circle 
Was dispersed. * My dear," (replied Pru- 
dentia, with a compassionate kind of smile) 
u you have lived in the clouds, all your days, 
ic and I am sorry to see you are not out of 
u them yet. For my part, who have long 
" been sensible, that it is upon this earth, and 
" not up in the air, that I am to act my part 
" in life, I confess, nothing seems more 
" natural to me, than that children should be 
" taught to follow the same motive, by which 
" they are sure to be actuated all the rest of 
" their lives." — Can you possibly mean so low 
a motive as interest? said I. — " I certainly 
" do. For as low as you think it, you must 
li be sensible, if you reflect a moment, that it 
4f is what we all of us pursue. Those, who 
" give up their happiness, in the present state, 
ft with the most disinterested air, do it only 



Essay xi. 125 

a to intitle themselves to the blessings of a 
" future ones" 

Supposing that this was the case, interrupted 
I, the nature of the rewards, in these two in- 
stances,, is so very different, that it would 
hinder you from drawing any inferences from 
them, in favour of your own scheme. If the 
greatness, or gaieties of this world were to be 
our recompence, I should think, that to reward 
a child with a doll, or a hobby-horse, were 
framing its mind to proper expectations and 
desires — but will you let me talk a little upon 
subjects, that are certainly above my reach? 
— O by all means, answered Prudentia, Cle- 
mene was not to call upon me till eight, and I 
shall be mighty glad to hear your romance of 
education, in the mean time. I dare sav it 
will be pretty : but you will find it a mere 
romance, I am persuaded, ten years hence, 
when you have a family of your own. — Well, 
be that, as it will : you have given me leave to 
talk, and this is all I have to do at present. 

I was going to say, continued I, that I 
cannot help imagining, that a great part of 
our happiness, in a future state, may arise 
from a sense of right, abstractedly from all 
other considerations. That, at least, as much 
of it will proceed from the thought, of having 



126 Essay xr. 

acted agreeably to the infallible will of the 
most perfect of beings, as from that of having 
deserved the favour of the lord of the universe, 
and from the hopes of any happiness, which 
infinite goodness and power may bestow on 
us. In short it seems to me, as if to contri- 
bute, each in our inferior way, to the order 
and beauty of the universe, was at once the 
noblest, and the justest motive, and the high- 
est reward of goodness. 

" Lucia is not old enough to enter into all 
" these abstracted reasonings," saidPrudentia* 
" In our world, we must treat children, as 
" children, and convince them by their senses, 
" in default of their judgments. I do not 
" know what people may do in Fairy land. 
" I suppose, if you had a son, you would ex- 
" pect, he should be divinity Professor at five 
" years old : but I am afraid, Lucy would 
" not be at all a fit wife for him." 

Look ye, said I, you shall not laugh me 
out of my argument : and so arm yourself with 
patience, and hear me out. Your supposition 
is an excellent good one : but I am afraid, I 
shall be less mistaken, in supposing, that a 
child, who has been taught no other end in 
behaving itself well, than the gaining some 
favourite point, or some darling toy, will 
5 



Essay xi. 127 

never make a disinterested minister, will 
never regard the reality of virtue, and will be 
ready to throw off even the appearance of it, 
when it is contradictory to interest. 

" But must one never give a poor child any 
" encouragement then ?" cried Prudentia. 

You mistake me entirely, said I, let good 
behaviour be always attended by reward ; but 
you make it the consequence of bad behaviour. 
As for the particular rewards of toys and 
sugar-plumbs, I confess myself, in general, 
no great friend to them. The approbation of 
friends is a better incentive to act right ; and 
gives, even to such children, a pleasure of a 
much higher kind. These should be m xed, 
however, in a proper degree: and certainly 
even the last ought not to be too much insisted 
on. The notion of doing right, for the sake 
of doing right, should be gently inculcated, 
and strengthened by degrees, as they advance 
in age, and understanding. This will settle, 
in time, into a firm and stedfast Tightness of 
mind, which interest shall never bias, which 
adversity shall never shake, which prosperity 
shall never enervate. From hence will pro- 
ceed a calm and even cheerfulness of temper, 
a regular and uniform conduct, that shall 
make them for ever happy in themselves, and 



128 Essay xi. 

respected by others. Not the wild gaiety of 
one hour, damped by uneasy reflections., the 
next: not a perpetual dispute, between reason 
and passion, which makes people good by fits 
and starts only. Miserable is the state of 
these : and yet perhaps it is almost always the 
effect of their not knowing, from the first, 
what end to aim at. Interest and ambition 
attract them, by a thousand glittering temp- 
tations : and yet, in spite of all these, in the 
midst of their pursuit, they feel themselves 
often checked by the secret monitor in the 
heart, who tells them, we were formed for 
something nobler than greatness, and that, 
neither riches nor pleasures are the chief end 
of life. 

But what is this nobler end ? Perhaps it is 
the applause of men, the immortality, which 
fame bestows, or at least, the pleasure of 
being w r eli looked on, and esteemed by the 
people among whom we live. — Fatal ima- 
gination ! Source of wild and mischievous 
exploits, of wars and desolations : and, in less 
noble minds, the origin of hypocrisy, and 
every hateful deceit. To look upon the respect 
and admiration of men, as the ultimate end 
of life, is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous 
errors, into which we can fall. While it is 



Essay xi. 129 

the perfection of a character to pay a proper 
regard to it, to rejoice in it as the amiable 
attendant of real virtue : but to be willing to 
sacrifice the fairest appearance, to what is 
really right: and bear the contempt of man- 
kind, rather than not deserve their esteem. 



ESSAY XII. 



On the Distinction between Canning and 
Prudence. 



Lord Bacon has an Essay upon cunning, 
lhat if it falls into wrong hands, is more likely 
to teach people sleights and devices, than to 
furnish a warning against them *. And yet 
the Essay is, in itself, excellent ; but methinks 
it were time well bestowed to make a just dis^ 
tinction between cunning and prudence, a 
blameable artfulness, and a laudable dex- 
terity. To fix the bounds of these two bor- 
derers and determine the nice difference, 

*' Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice/' 

To exercise the authority of superior reason 
and understanding, to make use of their law- 
ful advantages, can surely be no fault. On 
the contrary, it is making the best of our na- 

* Swift's Advice to Servants is liable to the same objec- 
tion. 



Essay xn. 131 

tare, and employing faculties that were not 
intended to lie idle. It is by reason and un- 
derstanding, that human kind are superior to 
brutes of infinitely greater strength and force 
of body, and the same sort of difference sub- 
sists among men. A brutal nature is to be 
considered in the same light, whether the 
animal it governs, go upon two legs or four, 
only in our behaviour towards the brutes of 
our own kind, we have this additional consi- 
deration, that there is, at the same time, a 
mixture of something divine and excellent in 
every human soul, which claims strongly our 
assistance, in subduing that worse half, so 
prevalent in the many. Thus, those who by 
wisdom lead others less wise, to act wisely, 
not only make them, as inferior natures, sub« 
servient to excellent purposes, but at the same 
time, do them a real and important good, and 
raise them above what they were. When, by 
innocent arts, we soothe an uneasy temper ; 
when, by suspending the impetuosity of a 
person's passion, we give him leisure to recall 
his reason, we do but free him from the worst 
of tyrants, and defend the good and reason- 
able man, within him, from the hasty influ- 
ence of the madman. 

But to do evil, that good may Qome of it, 
k2 



132 Essay xn* 

nothing can ever make allowable *i The 
moment we deviate from truth and integrity, 
our very best intentions are all poisoned and 
perverted. 

To learn what we can, by an acute ob~ 
servation of the countenances and manners of 
those with whom we are concerned, is certainly 
a very blameless point of wisdom. To pry 
into their secret thoughts, uninterested, and 
only to betray them, is the baseness of heark- 
ening at doors, and looking in at windows. 

The cunningly preventing objections to 
any thing, we have a mind should succeed, 
by unfairly withdrawing the attention of per- 
sons from it, can only be allowable, in cases 
of great exigence, or in absolute trifles. Mere 
humour is a thing, that we are at liberty to 
controul and guide, in what way we please : 
but when the case is of importance, we are 
scarcely fit judges, if it touches ourselves, 
whether we are at liberty to deceive another, 

* So also thought St, Paul ; but some modern moral 
Philosophers have been of a different opinion, and by 
stating extreme cases, and arguing from supposed cir- 
cumstances which never have existed, and probably never 
can take place, have strangely confounded right and 
wrong, and done much mischief to persons unused to 
metaphysical reasoning . 



Essay xu. 133 

to what, we may think, ever so good an end. 
If it is a person, over whom we have 
any authority, the case is somewhat clearer. 
Madness and folly we have a right to govern, 
founded in the utter incapacity of those, who 
are thus governed : and the point is indisputa- 
ble, that children may be cheated into health, 
with a sugared portion : and that to steal 
away the sword of a distracted person, or 
humour his frenzy, till we have secured him, 
is no theft or deceit. 

But to surprize any person's reason is 
utterly unjustifiable: and be the end we pro- 
pose ever so good, the means is most detesta- 
ble. If people will not make a right use of 
leisure and reflection, their fault is great : but 
if we do not allow them both, ours is much 
greater- 
All hypocrisy is hateful and despicable: 
but there certainly are infinite cases, where 
others have no right to know our private 
thoughts and resolutions. Reserve is always 
allowable. Where we go a step farther, it is 
accompanied with a kind of shame that is suf- 
ficient to instruct us. Yet sometimes, to be 
sure, we may put on an appearance of some- 
thing better than we are, as showing a disdain 
of our present imperfections, and provided we 
put this on, with a real intention and aim of 



134 Essay xn. 

rising 1 to the mark we have set. But any 
appearance contrary to what we are in our 
hearts and wishes, is vile. 

Once again : people's humours we may, 
nay ought to soothe and wind, and govern, 
as we best can : for humour is the childishness 
of the mind: reason its maturity, and children 
ought to submit to the direction of grown 
persons. These are the little arts that huma- 
nize society, and give it a pleasing and a 
gentle air. But to work upon people's weak* 
ness, to take advantage of their simplicity, to 
side with their passions, for our own purposes 
• — this is that monstrous policy, which is the 
wisdom of this world, and the foolishness of a 
better. 

To introduce any perplexing subject in the 
easiest maimer, provided our intention be a 
good one, is but using fit means to a laudable 
end. But let all have a care how they grow 
too fond of their own ingenuity and dexterity, 
in managing even laudable undertakings : the 
step is too easy to a low sort of cunning, that 
is as far from the true sublime of virtue, as 
any species of false wit is from the true sublime 
in writing. 

Most comedies are very pernicious in this 
way. They turn upon a thousand little stra- 
tagems and intrigues, that even when they 



Essay xn. 135 

are innocent tend strangely to corrupt the 
amiable simplicity of an honest mind. 

True taste in every thing is plainness and 
simplicity, the least deviation from nature that 
is possible ; for that is very consistent with the 
highest improvement of it. Buildings, gardens, 
statues, pictures, writings of all sorts, come 
within this rule, and it holds full as strongly in 
character and behaviour. It is the saying of 
a very excellent author, that the true art of 
conversation, if any body can hit it, seems to 
be this, an appearing freedom and openness, 
with a resolute reserved n ess, as little appearing 
as is possible. I stumbled at it at first : but 
upon consideration I must suppose him, and 
from what goes before it seems most probable, 
to mean by reservedness, a strict watch over 
ourselves, not to be led into saying any thing 
improper, or that can be of the least harm to 
others, and this may most allowably be tempered 
with such a winning carriage, and so easy a 
good humour, as shall take off from the height 
of virtue and discretion all appearance of stiff- 
ness and moroseness. 

To insinuate instructions jn a pleasing way, 
to introduce useful subjects by unaffected 
transitions, and to adorn truth with a mixture 
of pleasing fictions, is the highest merit of 



136 Essay xii* 

conversation, and has nothing to do with 
cunning *. To watch for a favourable oppor- 
tunity of doing people good, or reclaiming 
them from some error — —who ever complained 
of being so over-reached ? 

* Witness those most perfect models of all improving 
conversation, the discourses and parables of Jesus Christ. 



ESSAY XIII. 



On the Necessity of encouraging Hope. 

I do not know whether it is a pragmatical 
disposition, or whether it is the effect of a 
happy inclination to hope, in spite of all dis- 
couragements ; but for my part, I cannot 
abide to hear people in a desponding way, give 
up every attempt in which they cannot tho- 
roughly succeed. It is, generally too, the 
best and wisest sort of people, and who would 
therefore be the most likely to succeed in some 
degree, that by carrying their wishes of 
success too far, and finding it impossible to 
attain them, in their full extent, sit down in a 
useless despair and moralize upon the world : 
which, because it is too bad to be completely 
reformed by them, they disdain to mend as 
far as they might. 

Thus the best and most useful designs are 
the soonest discouraged, while those of the 
wicked and the trifling are pursued day after 
day : the one too violent to be checked by 
any consideration, that would oppose the 
ruling passion : the others too thoughtless to 
5 



138 Essay xm. 

attend to any difficulties, are continually 
weaving one web after another out of their 
idle imaginations, forgetful of all that have 
been brushed away, and thinking themselves 
well rewarded, if they can catch a few worth- 
less flies, the vanities and amusements of 
life*. 

There is something quite grievous in this to 
a mind full of spirit and activity, that thinks 
it glorious, at least to struggle in the cause of 
virtue, though ever so sure to be overpowered. 
But this is by no means the case : every ef- 
fort does something, whether enough to be 
perceived, at the moment, or not, is very little 
material: since in time it will certainly have 
its due effect, and whether that be soon 
enough for our pride to be flattered by it, or 
not, is a consideration which truly generous 
minds should overlook. They will, indeed, 
go on with less alacrity and satisfaction ; but 
ease and pleasure are, at best, but the secon- 
dary ends of our being, in such a state of 
trial as this life. If, therefore, we do but our 
duty here, we may trust our reward to futurity : 
and we should never urge the difficulties we 

# The allegory in this passage may perhaps remind the 
reader of the 4th stanza of Gray's beautiful Ode on the 
Spring, written in 1742, but not published till 1753, 



Essay xm, 139 

meet with, as any objection to the main 
business of our life, which would by no means 
be free from uneasiness, even should we neglect 
our duty. 

But, after all, w T hat are these so terrible 
difficulties of which people so heavily com- 
plain ? Ours is not, with all its faults, an age, 
or country of persecution or tyranny: people's 
lives and fortunes are secure ; their virtues in- 
volvethem in no danger, and though very 
possibly they may hinder them from rising in 
the world, yet though ever so openly and stre- 
nuously persisted in, they can do them no great 
damage. The utmost they can suffer is a 
little contradiction, a little chagrin, the vexa- 
tion of seeing many good endeavours turn out 
to but little good purpose, the uneasiness of 
living amongst a mixture of people little suited 
to their better turn of mind, and to whom they 
cannot do so much good, as they would. But 
is this a reason, why they should chuse to do 
none at all ? Will the world be the better for 
all the good people, that are in it, running to 
hide themselves in deserts and solitudes ? If it 
is not, what then is the sudden retirement, 
but an idle and selfish pursuit of their own in- 
dolent inclinations ? Does the industrious 
planter forbear his toil, because he expects not 



140 Essay xm. 

to enjoy the shade of those flourishing oaks, 
that will spring from his acorns ? Is he dis- 
couraged by the fear, or frequency of blights? 
Does he at once declare, that all the young 
trees are degenerate, and no good to be hoped 
from them ? The worse the world is, the more 
need it has of good people's trying to mend it: 
and should they be ever so unsuccessful, in 
regard to themselves, at least, they have not 
lost their pains. Meanly indeed do they be- 
tray the cause of virtue, if they, its only 
friends, suffer themselves to be overcome by 
so weak enemies as spleen and indolence. Of 
all people they have the least cause to despond: 
they, who pursue the noblest end, by the 
fairest means, they who are sure of being in 
the right, they who are sure to have the best 
applause for it, they who can doubt of no- 
thing, but that their present fancy may not 
be gratified in seeing an immediate success of 
their endeavours ; and this they need not 
doubt about neither, since they ought not to 
think of it at all. 

If sometimes such a glorious instance of 
success appears, this ought no more to mislead 
their hopes, than the notion of a magical 
wand, that raises palaces and gardens in an 
instant, should make people disdain to culti- 



Essay xrir, 141 

vate their country, by the slow and vulgar 
methods of planting and building. Inconve- 
niences that cannot be removed may be pal- 
liated at least. The first who formed habi- 
tations to defend them from the cold, were 
certainly much wiser than if they had sat 
down and piteously lamented those inclemen- 
cies of the weather, which none of their com- 
plaints could alter, but against which their 
industry could easily secure them. 

From this restless activity in the mind of 
man, this busy hope for ever springing up in 
his heart, this notion of bettering every situ- 
ation, and never resting contented while he 
can aspire to any thing further, all those im- 
provements, which form half the enjoyment 
of civil life, have arisen. But with them 
many errors have shot forward too; and if the 
more delicate flowers of virtue should be left 
to sicken and decay in their offensive shade, 
the world will soon be over-run with the most 
noxious weeds. 



ESSAY XIV. 



On the moral Uses of Geograplvy. 

Among those studies, which are usually 
recommended to young people, there are few 
that might be improved to better uses than 
geography. I mean by this, indeed, not a 
bare acquaintance with the outlines of a map, 
but some general knowledge of the people 
who inhabit this our globe : not their situation 
only, but their history and manners. It may 
perhaps be objected, that the title, which I 
have given to this study, belongs to a subject 
much more bounded, than the definition, 
which I have since been making of it: but I 
think it may very well include a general 
knowledge of history, as extended to all parts 
of the habitable globe, though a more parti- 
cular application to the histories of those few 
people, who have made themselves very re- 
markable on it, may belong to a different 
science. 

It is not only the error of the peasant boy, 
who imagines there is no habitable land, be- 

9 



Essay xrr. 143 

yond those mountains, that inclose his native 
valley, but of many more, that we have to 
guard against, and of much more important 
tendency. How the idea of greatness and 
superiority vanish in a moment, at the unrol- 
ling a large map of the world, where we see 
England itself, make so inconsiderable a 
figure ! Let our thoughts be never so strongly 
attached to any particular place, in this in- 
considerable spot, it must give us a moment's 
reflection, upon the insignificance of all those 
cares, that center in so imperceptible a point *! 
Innumerable interruptions indeed, trifling and 
vexatious, will often happen to call down our 
most exalted thoughts, but for that very rea- 
son, we have the more need of returning to 
them often : and not only taking a transient 
view of them in our minds, as shadows passing 
before a looking-glass -f ; but trying to fix 
them there, by reducing them to something 
solid, and ever drawing some practical precept 



* The classical reader will recollect that Socrates en- 
deavoured to check the early vanity of Alcibiades by this 
very means. 

f In how many places does Miss Talbot's intimate ac- 
quaintance with the Scriptures discover itself, even per- 
haps without any consciousness of it in her own mind ! 
See St. Jamos i. 23 and 24. 



144 Essay xir. 

from them, that may remain in our hearts, to 
whatever trifles imagination is hurried away, 
by the various avocations of life. 

Considered as a part of space, the spot 
each of us takes up, is indeed very insigni- 
ficant; but nothing is so as relating to the 
internal system of the universe : and therefore 
properly to fill the station, there assigned us, 
deserves an equal degree of care in persons of 
every rank, and is not to be measured by the 
acres they possess. 

This sort of consideration restores a higher 
value to the elevated circumstances of life, 
than the former has robbed them of, in the 
low notion of intrinsic value. This should 
teach the miser, to esteem his riches, rather 
by the treasure spent, than by his secret 
hoard : it should teach every body in general, 
from the day-labourer to the king, by every 
possible means to raise themselves, in the 
moral world, to a degree of consideration, 
that their place in the natural world can never 
attain. 

Could we (it is a strange wild fancy) ima- 
gine to ourselves a map delineated of this, as 
well as of the other, we should see then, that 
those vast continents which overspread the 
one, would be reduced, upon the other, to 



Essay xir. 145 

moderate bounds : while the smallest civilized 
tracts of land became extensive empires, in 
proportion to the improvements they have 
made, in religious virtue and knowledge. 
This, after all, is the map of real consequence, 
and which will remain with indelible strokes, 
long after the ether, when all that it relates 
to, is reduced to nothing. 

Can any one imagine riches the soul of life 
and source of joy? Let him but consider 
those vast tracts of land, where the bosom of 
the earth is filled with glorious gems, and 
glows with unnumbered mines of gold. Let 
him consider these countries, barbarous and 
wretched, ignorant of almost every useful art 
and speculative science ; untaught both in the 
elegance and use of life : then let him see in 
some character of civilized generosity, at 
home, what it is, that gives all the gloss to 
fortune, and whence alone riches derive their 
lustre. 

Is power the idol of the soul f Cast vour 
eyes on the monarehs of Mogul, or emperors 
of China. See how infinitely their grandeur, 
in immensity of wealth, in extent of dominion, 
in the adoration of their subjects, exceeds 
whatever greatness we are dazzled with, in 
those minute instances, that come within our 

L 



146 Essay xiv\ 

sphere of persona! knowledge. Then consider 
this greatness in itself; divested of all higher 
considerations, what is it but a wonderous 
tale, to astonish foreigners * ; the shining sub- 
ject of a book of voyages perhaps, that will 
be thrown aside by the first incredulous per- 
son, as a lye, and read by the serious and the 
thoughtful, with such reflections, as the pride 
of the monarch would little approve. It must 
be considered too as subject to hourly revolu- 
tions: besides, that all the state of an eastern 
monarch is incapable of affording the least 
relish, to one, who has been used to the re- 
finements of life, in more humanized nations. 
The highest gratitude must surely be raised 
in us, by such comparisons as these, when 
we reflect, that those moral and civil im- 
provements, which seem to set our little cor- 
ner of the globe, so far above the rest, that, 
like that mountain, which the Siamese imagine 

f _ 1 demens et saeves curre per Alpes, 

Ut paeris ptaceas, et declamatio fins. 

Juv. Sat. x. 

Thus elegantly paraphrased by Johnson in his applica-. 
lion of the Satirist's character of Hannibal; to that of 
Charles xn. of Sweden. 

" He left the name at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale." 



Essay xir. 147 

to stand on those g*ems, in the midst of the 
earth, the sun and moon, seem to have their 
revolutions only round that, cheering* and 
enlightening it with their warmest beams. 

Such an extensive view of human kind, as 
this, leads likewise to a general benevolence, 
dilates and enlarges the heart, as well as- the 
imagination. Where we behold a cultivated 
spot of land, the eye dwells on it with plea- 
sure : and when we see nothing but wild and 
barren deserts around us, we wish that they 
could be improved into the same smiling scene. 
We learn to look on the savage Indian, as 
our fellow-creature, who has a mind as capa* 
ble of every exalted satisfaction, as ours : and 
therefore we pity him for the want of those 
enjoyments, on which we pride ourselves. 
From compassionate thoughts kind actions, 
naturally flow : our endeavours will, in some 
degree, follow our wish, wherever it is sincere: 
and would we all join our endeavours to do 
all the good we are able, this earth would soon 
become a subject of such delightful contem- 
plation, as should make us reflect, with infinite 
delight, upon the study, that had first led u> 
into so useful a train of thoughts. 



t2 



ESSAY XV. 



On Consistency of Character. 

It is very strange, and not less grievous, 
that almost all people should have such an 
inequality in their conduct, as in ten thousand 
unheeded instances, daily to contradict those 
fundamental principles of duty and reason, 
which, in matters of more acknowledged im- 
portance, they justly make it their glory to 
act up to. 

The person who goes contrary to those 
principles, upon deliberate reflection, we all 
shun and detest : and is mere heedlessness so 
great a virtue, as to atone for our behaving 
in the same faulty way, because we do it, 
without making so deep reflection, as we 
ought ? 

A few instances may explain what I mean, 
and I believe, there are few persons, who will 
not find something of the same sort, at home, 
within themselves. 

Good nature is a quality that people are as 
fond of possessing as any. — Does it ever hold, 

9 



Essay xr. 149 

throughout? That pain, which we should 
abhor to inflict on the body of a friend, or a 
dependant, do we never suffer our caprice or 
humour to inflict it on their mind, an infinitely 
tenderer part? — That resentment and dislike, 
which we are strongly upon our guard against 
feeling, in return for real injuries, and should 
justly reckon ourselves very bad Christians 
if we did otherwise, do we never make them 
the punishment of trivial offences, and slight 
disagreeablenesses, in those to whom, perhaps 
we have solid obligations ? At the same time 
that we should desire, in cases of import- 
ance, to do all our fellow-creatures all possible 
good, do we seriously enough consider that 
the repeating an idle story, or spreading upon 
slight grounds, a disagreeable report, is acting 
most directly contrary to those laudable de- 
sires? We can actually do good but to few: 
but we ought to wish it as sincerely and as 
warmly to all, as if they were truly within 
the small circle of our own influence : and 
consequently, a mind, that is as good as it 
should be, will feel itself heartily interested 
in every interest of our fellow-creatures. 
Should we then listen with complacency, or 
even with careless ears, to the story of such 



150 Essay xr. 

faults, frailties and follies, as are real misfor- 
tunes to them r 

Patience and resignation are what, in the 
severest trials, we should earnestly wish to bd 
distinguished for. Do we practise them oh 
trifling occasions? Let every one of us be 
asked — can you bear to be put out of your 
own way, to accommodate your humour to the 
varieties of human life, and however your 
day is turned and interrupted, cheerfully make 
the best of it ? Can you improve little incon- 
veniences into something tolerable and even 
useful? It may generally be done if people 
would but set their minds to it. 

You are convinced, perhaps that a cheer* 
ful, grateful disposition is that, which above, 
all others, ought to be cultivated by creature 
formed for immortal happiness, guided in 
their way to it, by the most gracious Provi- 
dence, and continually under the eye, and 
care of the most excellent and amiable of 
beings. But do you always act, and think 
and speak consistently with this persuasion ? Far 
none of your breath wasted in vain sighs ? Do 
you never voluntarily indulge the overflowings 
of a fruitless sorrow? Do you never, by giving 
way to a momentary disgust, resentment or 



* 



Essay xv. 151 

peevishness, rob yourself of that highest de- 
light, which flows from perfect kindness and 
good humour ? Do vou never encourage dis- 
Bgfceekble thoughts and jarring passions to 
disorder the harmony of your soul, and make 
you tasteless to all the joys of life, and to all 
the charms of beautiful nature ? Do you never 
nourish a fond and blameable anxiety — never 
heap times and circumstances of trouble and 
sorrow in your mind, till the load grows too 
heavy for imagination to bear? Do you never 
please yourself with heightening the paintings 
of your distress? Do you often recollect all 
the happy and delightful circumstances of 
your situation ? No state is without very many, 
and those very important. 

Again : you are generous, it may be, free 
and open-hearted: your dispositions are all 
noble and liberal : your bounty would be in- 
exhaustible if your estate was so: you would do 
good to all the world: no eye should see you, 
that could not " bear witness" to your kind- 
/Uess. But in the free indulgence of this 
amiable temper, how possible is it, that you 
may injure those whom you are the most bound 
to help ? If proper regard to the limits of your 
power be not observed, this dignity and gene- 



152 Essay it. 

rosily must be supported by the cruellest in- 
justice, and the most wretched condescen- 
sions. To what straits, what meannesses are 
those often reduced, whom fortune had once 
placed in a high rank ! From what proceeds 
thi-, but from inequality of conduct! 

The elegant beauty, whose fondest aim is 
to please and to be admired, lias sometimes 
small regard to that complete harmony of 
manner and behaviour, which perfects the 
charm. Indeed we are, all of us, so short- 
sighted, that to take in a whole view at once 
is impossible. Yet these view T s of life we 
ought surely to chuse and study, with at least 
as much taste and attention, as a landscape 
painter does prospects. The most consider- 
able objects should take up the chief place, 
and be finished with the highest art. The 
rest should be thrown ofif, in due proportion, 
and lessening by imperceptible degrees. But 
what a picture would he make, were the 
distant hills to be painted with a vivid green, 
and the nearest objects softened into a purplish 
blue : here, every flower touched up with ex- 
quisite art: and these objects as near, and 
more considerable, sketched only with rude 
out-lines? — Inconsistent throughout, we are 



Essay xr. 153 

seriously offended at Hie disproportion of any 
work of art, and utterly insensible of it in a 
thousand instances, where, to the eye of rea- 
son, it is infinitely more monstrous, 



ESSAY XVI. 



On the Art of pleasing in Society. 

One great reason why people succeed so 
little in the art of pleasing, while they seem 
wholly possest by the ambition of shining, is 
their not observing proper rules of place and 
time. They shine, indeed, in their own eyes 
extremely: but they do not suit their manners 
to the taste of those, with whom they con- 
verse. Whatever is their favourite and su- 
perior accomplishment, they are apt to imagine 
a sufficient recommendation, wherever they 
go; when probably there are a thousand less 
striking, which, properly placed, would make 
them appear, with infinitely more advantages. 
Nor is even the favourite accomplishment by 
this means lost; for when once you have con- 
descended to win people's esteem, in their 
own way, they are willing enough to see every 
additional grace in your character, and dw r ell 
upon it with pleasure. 

To instance only in the character of the 
fine lady. Struck with the praise of beauty, 



Essay xrY. 155 

and conscious of such a superior claim to 
admiration, the absolute fine lady will be such 
through every scene of life, and in every 
variety of circumstances. But after all what 
good is it to the industrious tradesman, that 
after many a morning's attendance, he can 
see her ladyship with a pair of fine eyes? It 
is not beauty, wit, or learning, that pass for 
current coin, in our dealings with people who 
live by their business. Punctuality and exact- 
ness, with a strict care to save them as much 
time and labour as we possibly can, is the 
least we owe them, for the pains they volun- 
tarily take to furnish us with every conveni- 
ence of life. 

This is meant for a rambling sort of Essay: 
and now I have named punctuality, I cannot 
help digressing, to praise it. There is nothing 
that makes us more welcome members of 
society. Exactness even in trifles, amounts in 
a long life, to a considerable sum of merit. 
People know how to depend upon us, and 
are sure, we shall never give them the least 
uneasiness or disappointment if we can pos- 
sibly help it. This makes them the more 
easily bear with us, on occasions more im- 
portant, where interests will sometimes very 
innocently interfere: and it is a piece of true 



156 Essay i//. 

policy never to forfeit that credit, in small 
things which we may possibly want, in great 
ones. There are numberless little arts of 
ingratiating ourselves, with our fellow-crea- 
tures, which are equally consistent with sin- 
cerity and prudence : nor was ever any thing 
more wise and humane than the Apos- 
tle's precept of " becoming all things to all 
" men." Little disobligations will be per- 
petually occurring, if we allow ourselves any 
liberty, in point of exactness ; the even tenor 
of our conduct is broken, and people begin 
to think themselves indebted more to chance 
than to us, for any civility or kindness we may 
show them. 

There is a kind of shatter-witted amiable 
character, which gains no confidence, and 
loses all respect. I think, I never saw any 
particular description of it, and it may not be 
amiss to draw one here. It is a careless, gay, 
good humoured creature, as full of liveliness 
and entertainment, as void of caution and dis- 
cretion, living on from moment to moment, 
without meaning any harm, or ever taking- 
thorough pains to do good. In such persons, 
fifty good qualities are lost, in the mere hurry 
of inconsideration. Every thing gores on at 
random : every thing is unequal and odd, and 



Essay xn. 15? 

yet every body loves them. Their affairs for 
the most part run to ruin without any extra- 
vagance: nay by starts, they will he the best 
managers, and the strictest economists in the 
world; but, alas, this is all the while, only 
whimsy masquerading in the dress of a house- 
wife. 

They who come under this description, 
whatever their principles may be, are guided 
in all the common affairs of life by mere hu- 
mour and frolick. They run, with the pret- 
tiest harmlessness in the world, into acts of 
injustice, that make all around them suffer 
severely, while they themselves are perfectly 
insensible whence the mischief comes, because 
they are conscious to theirown heartsof having 
the best designs and sentiments imaginable. 
By all I could ever learn, the great and amiabie 
Sir R. S. was one of these whimsical, un- 
happy mortals. With a genius and a heart, 
that few have ever equalled, lie had this detect 
in conduct, to such a degree as made him, in 
every respect, but that of an author, as li art- 
ful a member of society as well could be. 
Wit like his turned his very distresses into en- 
tertainment, and it is hard to say, whether he 
raised in his acquaintance, morelove, diversion. 



158 Essay xri. 

or compassion. But what pity it is, that such 
a mind should have had any blemish at all *'! 

My disposition has led me a great ways 
but when a favourite subject is fairly thrown 
before one, who can resist it? Not gravity and 
decorum itself. I remember a story of a good 
old lady, who used pretty equally to divide 
her time, between the church and the quad- 
rille-table. A young man of some humour, 
and of more smartness than discretion, had 
laid a wager, that he would make her talk, 
over her cards in prayer time. He contrived, 
the next day to kneel down by her: and when 
the Litany began, whispered in a low voice— 
1 had the terriblest luck last ! No mortal was 
ever so unfortunate. — Hush: be quiet, Sir, 
pray have done. — Madam, you shall but hear 
me. — Pray Sir, fie, by no means, pray be gone, 
for goodness sake. — I had four matadores: and 
so on he went telling his hand, and the wiiole 

* This character of Sir Richard Steele has given muck 
offence to some persons who think more highly of his 
moral qualities than Miss Talbot seems to have done. 
However the character given of him in few words by that 
wonderful prodigy of early genius, and Christian virtue, 
H. Kirke White, exactly agrees with her's. See lis " Ee- 
mains" by South ey, vol. i. p. 208. 



Essay it/, 159 

process of the game: while she, poor woman, 
was very seriously angry, and as she thought, 
perfectly inattentive to him. He goes on 
however. — A club was led, I put on a small 
trump, — Human patience could endure no 
longer. Pooh, says the good lady, you should 
have played your ponto. 



ESSAY XVII. 



On the Power and Necessity of Confidence. 

The stedfastness of a rock, the immoveable- 
ness of a centre, the firmness of a deep foun- 
dation, a pillar of adamant, an everlasting 
anchor, such to the fluctuating mind of man 
is a well-grounded confidence *. Without 
it, all his though is are lighter than the leaves 
in autumn, the sport of every momentary 
hurricane, His opinions are changeable by 
every varying circumstance : every mote in a 
sun-beam suggests some new fancy : he hopes 
and fears, dislikes and loves, doubts to-day, 
trusts to-morrow, accuses himself of credulity 
the next, then again grows inadvertent, and 
never lets his busy disquieted imagination rest. 
His reason, one hour, convinced by weighty 

* It is impossible to read this passage without being re-, 
minded of the sublime ode of the stoical Poet, 

Justum et tenacem propositi virum 
Non civium ardor prava jubentium, 

Non vultus instantis tyranni 

Mente quatit solida; &c. — HoR. Lib. iii. Ode 3. 



Essay xrn, 161 

arguments, has no impression left of them, 
another : but, suspecting judgment to be in 
faulty when only memory is blameable, frankly 
gives itself up to the next contrary system, and 
so on ad infinitum. 

In the intercourse of life, this fatal diffidence 
insensibly alienates the dearest friends, breaks 
the kind bonds of mutual trust, or dissolves 
them, by scarce perceptible insinuations. It 
particularly oppresses weak spirits: and 
challenges all the knight-errantry of reason, to 
free them from the power of this wicked 
enchanter. It is indeed in his insorcelated 
palace, that like the people in Ark>sto, friends 
and lovers, deceived by false appearances of 
one another, are perpetually wearied in a 
vain pursuit, and groan under a thousand 
imagined slights and injuries, of which all are 
equally guiltless ; and never gain an expla- 
nation to rectify the miserable error. A hero, 
who lately, perhaps, appeared crowned with 
laurels, is now, on the sudden, transformed 
into a monster. Credulous minds ! that do 
not know that the laurel of some virtues, is so 
absolute a security against all grosser failings, 
that their eyes must deceive them whenever 
they represent such a metamorphosis. 

But judgments are formed, more from par- 

M 



162 Essay xvn. 

ticular instances, than from general rules ; and 
hence it is, that they are so contradictory. 
Every fresh glaring appearance is believed, 
against the most absolute evidence, the past 
experience can furnish : and by mere following 
our noses, we miss the great land-marks, that 
should direct our journey. 

But to grow more methodical : this paper 
is of too mixed a nature, to allow the dwelling 
seriously on that religious confidence, which is 
the ground of all the rest, and of every assured 
satisfaction in life, or support at the close, of 
it. This is the inexhaustible, eternal source 
of cheerfulness, patience, and courage : of that 
true undaunted fortitude, that inspires the 
real hero, 

Who asks no omen, hut his country's cause *. 

Distrust and danger vanish at its radiance : 
constancy and indefatigable perseverance 
crown it with the noblest success, and with 
immortal honour. Even the weakness of 
constitutional cowardice may be relieved by 
it, from a thousand anxious fears ; and raised, 

* Pope's translation of 
Etf qwvos vpisros aiAvvzoQxt wept 9ra.fM$,-~ll. xii. 243, 



Essay xvn. 163 

upon any extraordinary occasion, into an ab- 
solute disregard of all those unreal evils, 
which so swell the sickly list of apprehension. 

In friendship, a mutual confidence is of so 
absolute necessity, that it is scarcely possible 
it should subsist, for any time, without it. 
When once upon reason, and experience, we 
have given persons an allowed title to our 
esteem, it is the highest injury both to them, 
and to ourselves, to remove it upon less than 
than an entire certainty ; and there are some 
degrees of esteem, that ought to outweigh the 
very strongest appearances. In such cases 
we should misdoubt all judgments of our 
own, rather than suspect the fidelity of a 
tried friend : and never give it up till we have 
allowed them the fullest opportunity for vindi- 
cating themselves, if appearances have injured 
them. By this means, nothing will remain 
perplexed or uneasy upon the anxious mind, 
but every thing will be fair, clear, and honest. 

When truth is presupposed as the founda- 
tion, this dependence follows of course, even 
when the circumstances do not admit of a 
present explanation. — " Appearances would 
" give me reason to be uneasy at your beha- 
" viour, if friendship did not forbid my sus- 
" pecting you." — — "It is very true: and I 

m 2 . 



164 Essay xru. 

" cannot yet explain those appearances/' 

What a world of trouble, and distrust, would 
such short explanations avoid. 

There are few things, which have more 
struck my imagination, than the meek answer 
of Balaam's ass, when his master unreason- 
ably corrected him, for what had only the 
appearance of a fault, and was, in reality, 
the highest instance of duty and care. In 
which, after having received a very passion- 
ate return to a very gentle expostulation, she 
only replies, — " Was I ever wont to do so 
« unto thee ?" 



ESSAY XVIIL 



On true Friendship. 

The only unshaken basis of friendship is 
religion. True friendship is a union of 
interests, inclinations, sentiments. Where 
these greatly clash, here may, indeed, be 
outward civility, but there can be nothing 
more. — What then becomes of all those fair 
ideas, and many fair histories too, of generous 
friendship sacrificing every interest of its own? 
What becomes of that worthiest complaisance 
that bends disagreeing humours into perfect 
sympathy ? What becomes of that powerful 
affection, that makes often so thorough a 
change in the sentiments and tempers of per- 
sons ? All these may consist with a maxim ap- 
pearing so contrary : for few people look so 
deep as the real and solid foundation of all, 
but take those for important interests and 
essential points, which indeed are but a tem- 
porary superstucture, liable to perpetual al- 
terations. 

Whoever to the constancy and faith of 



166 Essay xvm. 

friendship sacrifices the interests of fortune, or 
the indulgence of inclination, pursues still his 
true and essential interests : since he is strictly 
performing an important duty,. However the 
opinion of the good may differ in a thousand 
things, in this they agree, that there " is one 
■" thing needful," and that in all lesser points, 
candour, complaisance, and good nature, are 
the temper of mind it requires. 

Agreed in this, their inclinations, their 
pleasures, their pursuits, in all that is important, 
must be the same *. What openness of heart, 
what harmony of sentiments, what sweetness 
of mutual conversation must be the conse- 
quence. 

Truth, perfectly clear, and undisguised, 
constancy unchangeable through all the varie- 
ties of humour and circumstances, the kindest 
affection, and the most winning manners, flow 
almost naturally from this source of every good 
disposition. This infallible rule is a sure 
guard against all those errors and extremes 
which the best affections are liable to run 
into. It makes particular friendships keep 

# See this beautiful idea expressed also in terms nearly 
similar, but before Mrs. Carter had seen this Essay, in 
her Letters to Mrs. Vesey appended to the correspondence 
between her and Miss Talbot, Letter xxxvi. 



Essay xrm. 167 

within such bounds, as not to interfere with 
general charity and universal justice. It 
teaches to distinguish between Uiose errors 
and frailties of human nature, which in true 
friendship must be absolutely past over, and 
those contagious faults which necessarily dis- 
solve it. It heightens the delights of happy 
friendship, while it teaches us to look upon 
our friends, as blessings indulged to us, by the 
All-Giver: and it provides the only balm, 
that can heal the wounds of friendship cut 
short by death. It softens every kind anxiety 
we can feel for those we love, and must feel fre- 
quently in a world so full of varied distresses : 
by bidding us look up to the almighty Friend 
and Father of all, " who careth for all alike,'' 
and trust in him to give them that assist- 
ance and relief, of which we poor helpless 
creatures, can at best be but very poor 
instruments. To him we can pour out the 
affectionate fulness of our hearts, when over- 
whelmed with a tender concern for their wel- 
fare: and may rest assured, that he will 
guide and prosper our sincere endeavours for 
their real good. 

When the heart has long been used to the 
delightful society of beloved friends, how 
dreadful is absence, and how irksome solitude* 



168 Essay xviu. 

But these phantoms of absence and solitude 
vanish before the sun-shine of religion. Every 
change of life, every variety of place, allotted 
us by an all-ruling Providence, grows welcome 
to us ; and while we consider ourselves and 
our friends, however distant, as equally under 
the care and protection of the same gracious 
and omnipresent Being, our common Creator, 
Redeemer, and Preserver, the distance be- 
tween us, with all its terrors is annihilated ; 
while solitude and retirement gives us but the 
opportunity for a wider range of thought on 
subjects, that ennoble friendship itself* Then 
may our minds look forward, through an 
endless succession of ages, in which the spfrits 
of just men made perfect, renewing in a 
happier world the affectionate engagements, 
just began, as it were in the days of their 
mortality, shall rejoice in one another's con- 
tinually improving happiness and goodness, to 
all eternity. Blessed mansions, where we 
shall meet again, all those beloved persons 
whose remembrance is so dear to us ! Our 
friendship shall then, probably be extended 
through the whole society of the blest. Every 
one amiable, every one benevolent, how can 
it be otherwise? The excellent, of all ages, 
and nations, shall then be numbered among 




Essay xriii. 169 

our friends. Angels themselves will not dis- 
dain to admit us to their friendship. Beyond 
all these glories, we may still raise our 
thoughts to the supreme Friend and Father, 
till they are lost in the dazzling, but delightful 
contemplation. 

When so fair a superstructure rises from so 
fairabasis, who but would build their friendship 
on this everlasting rock ? But, alas ! the slight 
connections of the trifling world, are but like 
those wooden buildings raised suddenly for 
pompous festivals, adorned with every elegance 
and splendour for a day, and with all the 
mimickry of marble pillars, and the most 
solid architecture. The least accident destroys 
them at once : and a very short time, of 
course, sees the spot, where they were erected, 
forlorn and bare *. 

# If Mr. Cumberland ever read the passage which con- 
cludes this noble Essay, it might be supposed that he had 
taken from it the hint of the last speech of the third act of 
his tragedy of the Carmelite. But the same brilliant ideas 
may often occur to the minds of authors of real genius, 
without rendering them liable to the imputation of plagi- 
arism. 



ESSAY XIX- 



On our Passage through Life ; a Reverie. 

I do not much love the tribe of dreaming 
writers. There is something very unnatural 
in supposing such products of understanding, 
such a regular series of ideas, generally ab- 
struse and allegorical enough to put the com- 
prehension of a waking reader upon the 
stretch, to be the effects of wild imagination, 
at those hours when she is most unassisted by 
reason and memory. Yet it is pity a lively 
fancy should be baulked, and confined to the 
dull road of essay-writing, merely to avoid 
such a trifling absurdity in the phrase. It 
might certainly be changed with great pro- 
priety into that of a Reverie, which, by people 
that indulge their imaginations, is often car- 
ried on a very considerable time, with as gay 
a variety of circumstances, and as lively co- 
louring as the poppy-dipt pencil of Morpheus 
could ever produce. Be it allowed me then 
to say, that one afternoon this summer, I fell 
into a deep Reverie, lulled by the whispering 



Essay xix. 17 1 

of groves, the soft descent of a refreshing 
shower, and the musical repetitions of a 
thrush. The air around me was perfumed 
with jessamins and woodbines, and I found 
myself perfectly in a poetical situation. The 
volume I had in my hand should of right, to 
be sure, have been Ovid or Petrarch, but it 
was Sunday, and the genteel reader must ex- 
cuse me if I own that it contained the book of 
Ecclesiastes. 

The soothing scene about me had at length 
suspended my reading; but my thoughts were 
still filled with many beautiful images of the 
nothingness and vanity of human life. There 
is something so bounded, and so shadowy in 
our existence, that the celestial beam of un- 
derstanding which shows us what it is, must 
give vis almost a disgust of life itself, were not 
our affections attached to it by so many tender 
ties, as call back our proud thoughts every 
moment. Most miserable state, continued I, 
in a melancoly soliloquy, what wretchednesses 
are we conversant in, to what mean objects 
are we bound down, how little a way can 
we see round us, how much less can we 
comprehend, through what a wild of errors 
lies the narrow path of truth ! Narrow and 
long ! — Long ? Why then it is not methinks 

5 



172 Essay xix. 

so strange, that one should not step to the end 
of it at once. Well, suffice it that our pro- 
gress be gradual. — But what a thick dark 
hedge is here on either side. How much plea- 
santer would it be to break through it, and 
view the fair varieties of the universe as we 
pass along. Suppose it quite away. — In the 
midst of this vast trackless plain how will you 
now distinguish your path ? — This brink of a 
precipice that you are to pass along, does not 
your head turn at it ? Do not you wish again 
for your safe boundary ? — Well, but here the 
path is safe and open. — Amuse yourself, look 
round you. — I do not like my own path. 
Yonder is one much fairer, passing over a 
much nobler eminence. I like my own path 
less than ever. I do not yet see far enough. — 
O thou spirit of disorder and confusion, canst 
thou not be contented to move in the way al- 
lotted thee? Deviate then into ruin. Many 
a winding walk presents itself on each hand. 
Art thou willing to venture ? — No, let us pur- 
sue this safer, vulgar path. Must we have 
dirt and cloudy weather too ? — You must. It 
belongs to this portion of the universe. This 
rain that displeases you here, is nourishing 
sweet herbs and delicious fruits, that will re- 
fresh you a few r furlongs hence. Behold now 



Essay xix. 173 

the advantage of these despicable things you 
are hedged in with. These thorns that some- 
times pull you back, are often crowned with 
gay and fragrant blossoms, to make the tedious 
journey seem less irksome. Those thick trees, 
that bar your wandering view, are drest in a 
soft verdure that relieves your eye, and ena- 
bles it sometimes to take a better glimpse 
through the branches, on objects that it could 
not dwell upon, till it becomes stronger. — 
Beneath a cypress lay a gloomy philosopher, 
who called out in a dismal tone, whoever you 
are, foolish passengers, know your own mi- 
sery. It is impossible to have any rational 
enjoyment, in this your despicable state. 
Banish the thought of comfort. You are a 
parcel of wretches, to be happy is none of 
your business, to be cheerful is an absurdity. 
These blossoms are transient as the spring, 
those vile fruits you gather as you pass along,, 
ought not to detain your attention one mo- 
ment from those gems that glitter on your 
heads, which are your only real treasure. 
Those wretched fruits what are they ? — They 
are what support us from one state to another, 
said a plain man, who past by, and our stock 
of gems is gradually increasing, if we keep 
but steadily in the right path, and gently and 



174 Essay xix. 

patiently remove the thorns and briars, that 
molest us, as we move towards the country of 
diamonds.— Immediately my Reverie trans- 
ported me into a fair. Long streets of booths 
crossing each other at right angles formed 
very regular squares, of which some were 
handsome and some very ugly, from the dif- 
ferent structures of the booths. Several mar- 
ket-women were carrying away bundles and 
baskets marked with the names of the various 
proprietors. I met a hag of a very untoward 
look, bent almost double with the weight 
of years, her brow wrinkled, and her com- 
plexion weather-beaten. The sight of her 
displeased me, but she was not to be avoided. 
Here, said she, offering me a filthy basket, 
covered at the top with thorns, take your pur- 
chase, and make much of it. My purchase 
said I, stepping back : Nay, said she, e'en 
take it, and flung it at my head. But as she 
turned away, a smile that began to brighten 
on her solemn face, discovered to me that she 
was the gQod Fairy Experience. I sat down 
with the encouragement this discovery gave 
me, and began to examine her basket. The 
thorns it was covered with cost me a good 
deal of time to disentangle, and take them out 
with safety to my fingers, but I recollected 



Essay xrx. 175 

them distinctly every one to be such as had 
perplexed me and torn my clothes, as I past 
along the narrow path, and which one by one 
I had gently broken off the boughs while I 
pursued my journey. These were the very 
individual thorns and briars, and while I was 
wondering how they should come to be so 
collected, I came to the bottom, where I 
found a row of inestimable pearls, equal, in 
number to the briars, large, even, round, and 
of an exquisite polish. Beside them lay a 
scrip of paper with these words written on it. 
* Philosophy and evenness of temper are 
" pearls, which we purchase at the price of 
" those vexations and crosses in life, that 
" occur to us every day. Nothing in this 
" world is to be had for nothing. Every dif- 
ficulty we surmount is the purchase of some 
advantage. Go through the fair, and 



« 



" see." 



I perceived a good genius standing near 
me, and desired him to be my cicerone. We 
went through the booths and examined the 
purchases. Here the coin paid down for 
health and ease, and freedom from perplexity, 
was stamped with care and prudence. There, 
the copper money of mere plodding perse- 
verance was the price of wealth, honour, 



176 Essay xix. 

learning and accomplishments. In one place 
there was a sort of M@n mouth-street, where 
people were bartering old bad habits for new T 
ones, every way more becomings but seemed 
to think their bargains very hard, and the 
very article of fitting them on, occasioned 
such a variety of wry faces, as would have 
given great diversion to a grotesque painter. 
It was a melancholy amusement to see how 
people mistook in the value they set upon 
things, how often they passed by, with a 
slighting air, those goods which at first they 
might have had for a trifle, and never knew 
the worth of them, till they were engaged to 
other bidders, or the price raised very high, 
or themselves perhaps gone so far off before 
they took the fancy of returning, that they 
could not find their way back without a guide; 
and in the whole place there was but one 
guide to be met with, and she of so forbidding 
an aspect, and so disagreeable a conversation, 
as made her a very undesirable companion. 
She severely reproved their folly, and obliged 
them to throw away the bargains, on winch 
they had most set their heart, and then led 
them back to the fair, by a rough, round- 
about way, to buy those they had formerly 
slighted. By the time they had got there, she 



Essay xix. 177 

began to wear a gentler aspect, and they found 
so much advantage in the change of their 
purchases, that notwithstanding all her rude 
treatment, they acknowledged Repentance as 
a very useful friend. 

Leisure, I found, was a metal that proved 
more or less valuable according to the image 
stamped upon it, and as I saw what admirable 
curiosities it purchased in the hands of good 
managers, I was quite provoked to see what 
quantities of it were flung away : but this was 
nothing. I saw many fine people throw away 
handfuls of diamonds, that they might have 
their fingers at liberty to catch butterflies. 

In some parts of this fair, every body seemed 
to be playing at cross purposes. The most 
valuable gems were squandered away for 
trifles, which yet they could not purchase, 
and trifles offered for jewels of the highest 
price. I saw my friend Fosco the antiqua- 
rian, among a multitude of the same class, 
who brought such a quantity of time and in- 
dustry, as would have purchased any thing in 
the whole place, and poured it out before a 
cabinet of copper coins, which, still after all, 
wanted one or two of being perfect. I saw 
others of gayer appearance buy a shadow, a 

N 



178 Essay xix. 

flower, a feather, at still a higher price. — At 
last, to my infinite vexation, a less shadowy 
figure stood before, and a summons to attend 
some visitors that were just alighted, put an 
end to my Reverie, 



li# S S A Y X X » 



On our Capacity for Pleasure. 

There is a magnificence in nature, like 
that of some sumptuous feast. The objects of 
our enjoyment are multiplied infinitely beyond 
our capacities of enjoying: and there is some- 
thing, in the human mind, perpetually dissa- 
tisfied with its present advantages, because it 
cannot take in every thing at once. Like silly 
children, possessed of all within our reach, 
we cry for all we see. 

The desires of our nature so vast, and its 
capacities so bounded, are demonstrations of 
a being in its infancy here, and to be per- 
fected hereafter. But having traced this un- 
easy sentiment, this perpetual craving to its 
natural source, we should from thence learn 
to suspend its force, during our present state ; 
and when once we know at what sort of en- 
joyments we can arrive, and how vainly we 
strive to go further, sit down contented with 
our lot, and try to make the best of it. Were 
this done, as it should be, spleen would lose 
half its empire in the world. We should not 

n 2 



180 Essay xx. 

be much mortified at finding ourselves tied 
down for a while, to such childish amuse- 
ments, because we should consider, that our 
existence has a nobler aim, a higher end in 
view. In the mean time, till that can be 
attained, we shall welcome every small satis- 
faction, with a cheerful countenance, and 
never be too proud to be pleased. 

I cannot help looking upon pleasure as a 
real, and amiable being, and blessing the 
author of nature, who has created this charmer 
to lead man on towards final happiness 
through, as Shakespeare calls it, this worky- 
day world. This soft enchantress waves her 
wand, and all nature appears drest in smiles 
and elegance. Sweet smells, gay colours, 
musical notes, are diffused through the whole 
globe. Every thing is beautiful in its season *. 
All we have to do, is to open our minds to so 
rich a variety of delightful impressions : to ac- 
commodate ourselves with joy and thankful- 
ness to the present scene, whatever it is, and 
to make the most of that good, which every 
thing has in it. To a free mind all is agree- 
able : but violent attachments to any par- 

* And God saw every thing that he had made, and 
behold, it was very good. Gen. i. 31. 



Essay xx. 181 

ticular objects narrow the soul, and lessen its 
capacity for enjoyment. 

The first care to be taken is, to keep our 
minds so loose and disengaged from the world* 
that setting, as far as possible, the true value 
upon every thing in it, and no more, we may 
enjoy all the satisfaction it can possibly afford 
us, and avoid those anxieties, which misplaced 
affections create. Violent partialities, must 
have violent antipathies to balance them : 
those who set up to themselves idols to worship, 
will, at the same time, raise to themselves 
hobgoblins, to fear. We can seldom find in 
our hearts to exalt one character, without 
depressing another: and we must generally 
have an object of ridicule and dislike, as well 
as one of esteem and admiration. Nay, I am 
afraid, there are more people, who amuse 
themselves with seeing every thing in a bur- 
lesque and disagreeable light, than of such, 
as will take the pains to be pleased with an 
amiable view of this fair world. We are 
most ingenious to find out what is wanting or 
amiss in our situations : but how ready to 
overlook the other side! What complaints of 
the scorching heat of summer, the pinching 
cold of winter! For some people, no day is 
good enough, no place without its faults, no 



182 Essay xx. 

company without failings. Alas, alas! as \{ 
it were any thing new or unexpected, that this 
world should be, in many things, deficient: 
as if it were a proof of genius to discover, 
what it is a much better proof of good sense 
to pass over, and as if it needed quick eyes to 
discern the flaws in this rough cast of a globe. 
Who could ever expect it to be all made of 
solid pearl, and polished to the highest lustre? 
Yet such as it is, if we make the best of 
it, we shall enjoy no small degree of happi- 
ness. 

There is in every thing, a charm, a good, 
that we have capacities to taste, if we would use 
them. The enthusiastic language of poetry 
alone, is fitted to describe the bloom of nature, 
in a country scene. One breath of vernal 
air diffuses serenity and joy, through the souL 
The music of the woods, tunes every thought 
to harmony. The clear height of the firma- 
ment, and the bright biueness of the aether, 
is transport to the eye, and gladness to the 
heart. While the sight wanders through the 
gay expanse, the mind rises to the noblest 
contemplations, and our thoughts expatiate 
upon future scenes of fair existence, in worlds 
all of harmony and beauty. 

But, to give us a just view of our capacities 



Essay xx. .183 

for pleasure, and sure this is a rent-roll well 
worth looking over, we may consider what joy 
almost every kind of object affords to some set 
of men or other, and resolve out of duty and 
prudence to draw some degree of that satis- 
faction from them, which these do from in- 
clination, or acquired partiality: at least not 
to overlook with contempt, or regard with 
aversion, whatever is not contrary to inno- 
cence or reason. See but how delighted the 
florist and botanist are with those blossoms 
and herbs which the rest of mankind tread 
carelessly under foot. Observe the astrono- 
mer, with what transport he views those clear 
stars, which the mortal of business, or the 
butterfly of amusement, scarce ever find leisure 
to look up to. Mind the painter, who sees all 
things in a picturesque view, how charmed he 
is with the blended lights and shades, in every 
landscape. Nothing escapes him ; each figure 
has an attitude, an air, something graceful or 
grotesque * : and so far is not ridiculouSc 

* The late good and amiable Mr. Gilpin was a striking 
instance of this kind. In his various tours he seems to 
have attended (as indeed he professed to do) to scarcely 
any thing else, and even in his views and landscapes he 
drew them not as they were, but as they ought to have 
been, to produce the desired picturesque effect. 



184 Essay xx. 

Every kind of virtuoso has his darling atten- 
tion, and each one is the source of some plea- 
sure unknown to the rest of the world. Why 
may not we share in them all? What a vene- 
ration has the antiquary for dust and mould? 
How pleased is the collector of rarities, with 
moths and shells, nay, with what many of us 
should look upon as the refuse and deformities 
of nature. These good people, as much as 
they despise one another, have, all of them 
reason on their side, as far as it will carry 
them. But when attached to one particular 
thing, we indulge our fondness to an extra- 
vagance, then ridicule comes in, with a just 
reproof. But this belongs only to the degree, 
to the immoderate fondness ; for in some mea- 
sure, every thing deserves a pleased attention. 
The flower, the butterfly, the shell, has ex- 
quisite beauty : the herb, invaluable use *. 
Every speeies of learning is an improvement 
to human nature: and those of which the use 
is not obvious, may tend, perhaps, to import- 
ant discoveries yet unthought of. Antiquity is 
truly venerable, its simplicity amiable, its annals 

* And this our life exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 

Shakespeare. As you like it> Act II, 



Essay xx. 185 

instructive. Modern refinements have their 
merit. The most trifling gaieties of social life 
exhilarate the heart, and polish the manners. 
One might as fairly number the sands on the sea 
shore, as reckon up the multitude of things, 
that may afford a wise and reasonable plea- 
sure. Were our lives here stretched out to 
some thousands of years, we might still be 
learning or enjoying something new. Yet 
this consideration does not make long life at 
all desirable, since our advantages in another 
state will be superior atoall, that our best im- 
provements can help us to acquire in this. 



ESSAY XXL 



On Reflection as the Source of Cheerfulness, 

How vain, and how vexatious is the flutter 
of the world ! Even I, who am sufficiently 
sensible, perhaps too much so, to its pleasures 
and amusements, can find, after a little while, 
my spirits quite worn out by them, and learn 
from a frequent experience, that reflection 
of the most serious sort, is the only true and 
lasting source of cheerfulness. 

As most of our affections here take their 
deepest tinge from the workings of imagina- 
tion, so there are perhaps scarce any, that 
will maintain their terrifying shapes against 
the calm efforts of reason: but, when amidst 
the hurry of a mixed and varied scene, we 
give them only now and then a transitory 
glance, these airy phantoms cast a gloom and 
horror over our whole lives. It is then, that 
poverty and pain, and sickness, disgrace and 
disappointment, nay satiety itself, strike upon 
our unguarded fancies, in the most dreadful 
manner. Our hearts are filled with sorrow, 

5 



Essay xxr. 187 

and poured out in ungrateful complainings. 
Cool reflection alone can disdain these bus-- 
bears of the mind : and to one who compre- 
hends so far as our bounden understandings, 
G&n comprehend, the universal scheme of 
Providence, few of its particular dispensations 
will appear severe, while every present suf- 
fering is overbalanced by a glorious futurity. 

How naturally the contemplation of what 
is most melancholy, leads to the most enliven- 
ing hopes, may be seen in some verses, which 
I will insert here, and which flowed from a 
natural chain of thoughts from the trifling, 
but gloomy incident of a bell tolling at mid- 
night. 



Hark ! with what solemn toll the midnight bell 
Summons Reflection to her dusky cell : 
With leaden sound it dully strikes the ear, 
Bids Horror wake and careless Fancy hear ; 
Chill'd Fancy hears with awful gloom opprest, 
Thus by the deep-felt worldless voice addrest. 

Wake mortal I wake from Pleasure's golden dream, 
The present gay pursuit, the future scheme ; 
The vain regret of hours for ever past, 
The vain delights in joys not made to last : 
The vainer prying into future days, 
Since, ere to-morrow's sun exerts its rays, 
My toll may speak them vain to thee. Thy fears, 
Thy hopes, thy wishes vain, and vain thy tears. 



188 Essay xxi. 

What then to thee, whose folded limbs shall rest 
In the dark bosom of the sabled chest, 
What will it then import to thee if fame, 
With flatt'ring accents, dwells upon thy name, 
Or spurns thy dust, or if, thy mould'ring form 
Safe from life's dangerous calm, or dreadful storm. 
Sleeps in the concave of a well-turn'd tomb 
By marble Cupids niourn'd amid the gloom 
Of some old Abbey, venerably rude, 
In Gothic pride : or in some solitude 
Beneath the spreading hawthorn's flow'ry shade, 
Crown'd with fresh grass and waving fern is laid : 
Trod, in some public path, by frequent feet 
Of passing swains, or deck'd by vi'lets sweet : 
Nameless, unheeded, till a future day 
Shall animate to bliss the lifeless clay. 

Or whether gaily past thy festive hours, 
Bath'd in rich oils, and crown'd with blooming flow'rs ; 
Or pinch'd with want, and pin'd with wasting care, 
All joys, all griefs, alike forgotten there. 
The part well acted, gracious heaven assign'd, 
If of the king, the warrior or the hind, 
It matters not : or whether deck'd the scene 
With pomp, and show, or humble, poor and mean, 
The colouring of life's picture fades away, 
When to these shades succeeds a clearer day. 
The colouring partial Fortune blindly gave, 
Debas'd the imperial figure to a slave. 
In glitt'ring robes, bade shapeless monsters glow, 
And in a crown conceal'd the servile brow. 
Perhaps false lights on well-drawn figures thrown, 
Scarce cautious Virtue would her image own : 
But when the gloss of titles, wealth, and pow'r, 
Of Youth's short charm, and Beautv's fading ;flow'i\ 



Essay xxi. 189 

Before Truths dazzling sun shall fade away, 

And the bare out-lines dare the piercing ray, 

Then if the pencil of thy life has trac'd 

A noble form, with full proportion grac'd, 

A model of that image heav'n imprest 

In the first thoughts of thy untainted breast, 

Whate'er the painting Fortune's hand bestow'd, 

Whether in crimson folds thy garments flow'd, 

Or rags ungraceful, o'er thy limbs were thrown, 

Thy ev'ry virtue overlook'd, unknown ; 

An eye all-judging, an all-pow'rful hand 

The bounteous pallet shall at length command, 

Reject the vicious shape that shrinks away, 

Stript of those robes, that drest it once so gay. 

Excuse the imperfect form, if well design'd, 

Where the weak stroke betray'd the enlighten'd mind ; 

Grant every ornament and ev'ry aid 

On ev'ry failing cast the proper shade, 

And bid each smiling virtue stand display'd ; 

Improving ev'ry part, with skill divine, 

Till the fair piece in full perfection shine. 



I 



ESSAY XXI L 



On the Employments of Life. 

Why is it that almost all employments are 
so unsatisfactory, and that when one hath 
past a day of common life, in the best way 
one can, it seems, upon reflection, to be so 
mere a blank ? And what is the conclusion to 
be drawn from so mortifying an observation ? 
Certainly not any conclusion in favour of 
idleness: for employment, as such, is a very 
valuable thing. Let us have done ever so 
little, yet if we have done our best, we have 
the merit of having been employed, and this 
moral merit is the only thing of importance in 
human life. 

To complain of the insignificancy of our 
employments, is but another name for repi- 
ning at that Providence, which has appointed, 
to each of us, our station : let us but fill that 
well, to the utmost of our power, and what- 
ever it be, we shall find it to have duties and 
advantages enough. 

But whence, then, is this constant dissatis- 



Essay xxn. 191 

faction of the human mind ; this restlessness, 
this perpetual aim at something higher and 
better, than, in the present state, it ever can 
attain ? Whence, but from its celestial birth, 
its immortal nature, framed for the noblest 
pursuits and attainments, and in due time, to 
be restored to all this dignity of being, if k 
does but behave properly in its present hu- 
miliation. 

Be that as it will, there is something painful 
in this strong sense of worthlessness and 
meanness, that must make people of leisure 
and reflection pass many an uneasy hour. 
Perhaps there is nothing better fitted to wean 
us from life : but in doing that, it by no means 
ought to hinder us from industry and content- 
ment. Every station, every profession, every 
trade has its proper set of employments, of 
which it is an indispensable duty for every 
person to inform themselves with care, and to 
execute with patience, perseverance, and dili- 
gence. This rule of duty holds, from the 
emperor to the artisan : for though the em- 
ployments are different, the duty, that enforces 
them, is the same, in all. Man is born to 
labour : it is the condition of his being : and 
the greatest cannot exempt themselves from it, 
without a crime. 



192 Essay xxn. 

If we consider well, we shall find, that all 
employments, in this transient scene, come 
pretty much to the same nothingness.— The 
labours of those who were busy and bustling 
on this globe, five or six hundred years ago — 
what now remains of them, but the merit, to 
the persons themselves, of having been well 
employed ! How many valuable books, the 
employment, and the worthy one, of whole 
lives, have perished long ago, with the very 
name of their authors! The strongest monu- 
ments of human art and industry, obelisks, 
temples, pyramids, are mouldered into dust, 
and the brittle monuments of female diligence 
in pye-crust, are not more totally lost to the 
world. To found an empire was enough to 
gain a sort of immortality ; yet the empires 
themselves have proved mortal *. 

There are certainly some employments of a 
noble, and a happy kind, but in no degree, 
answerable to our ideas : for the best we can 
do, is most poor, whether we would improve 



Empires die ; where now 



The Roman ? Greek ? They stalk an empty name ! 
Yet few regard them in this useful light ; 
Tho' half our learning is their epitaph. 

Young's Night Thoughts, ix. 

Published about 1745 



Essay xxn. 193 

ourselves, or do good to our fellow-creatures, 
in comparison of the capacity of our mind, 
in its original state ; which resembles some 
vast Roman amphitheatre, that once con- 
tained myriads of happy people within its 
ample round ; defaced and ruined, it can now 
scarcely afford shelter from the sudden storm, 
to a few silly shepherds * m 

* As in those domes where Csesars onoe bore sway, 
Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, 
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

Goldsmith's " Traveller? printed 1765, 

A singular coincidence of idea ; for Miss Talbot died in 
1769, and her health had been too bad, for several years 
before, to allow her to compose. 



ESSAY XXIII. 



On Resignation to the Will of Providence. 

It is too common, for persons, who are 
perfectly convinced of the duty of patience and 
cheerful resignation, under great and severe 
trials, in which the hand of Providence is 
plainly seen, to let themselves grow fretful and 
plaintive under little vexations, and slight 
disappointments : as if their submission in one 
case, gave them a right to rebel in another. As 
if there was something meritorious in the 
greater sufferings, that gave them a claim to 
full indulgence in every trifling wish of their 
heart : and accordingly they will set their 
hearts most violently upon little reliefs and 
amusements, and complain and pity them- 
selves grievously, if they are at any time de- 
nied. 

All this is building on a false foundation. 
The same gracious Providence, that sends 
real afflictions only for our good, will, we 
may be absolutely sure, afford us such supports 



Essay xxur, 105 

and reliefs under them, as are needful and 
fit : but it will not accommodate itself to our 
idle humour. 

To be happy, we must depend for our hap- 
piness on Him alone, who is able to give it. 
We must not lean on human props of any 
kind ; though when granted us, we may thank- 
fully accept and make use of them ; but 
always with caution, not to lay so much 
weight upon them, as that the reed broken 
under our hand, may go into it, and pierce 
it*. 

On the loss of a friend, we must not say, 
this and that person, this and that amusement 
shall be my relief and support. But — -to 
Providence I must submit— Providence will 
support me in what way it sees proper.— The 
means on which I must depend, under that, 
are a careful and cheerful performance of, and 
an acquiescence in whatever is my duty. I 
must accommodate myself to all its appoint- 
ments : and be they health or languor, a dull, 
or an active and gay life ; a society agreeable 
to my fancy, or one that \s not, or none at 
all : if I do but endeavour to keep up thi| 

* See Isaiah xxxyi, 6. 
o 2 



196 Essay xxirr. 

right disposition, and behave accordingly, 
nothing ought to make me melancholy, or 
unhappy, nothing can, nothing shall. For- 
ward beyond this life, in this case I not only 
may, but ought to look, with joy and hope, 
with cheerfulness and alacrity of spirit. For- 
ward in this life, it is not only painful, but 
faulty to look either with anxiety, or with 
self-flattering schemes. Yet on this present 
scene, from day to day, and forward, so far 
as is necessary to the duty of prudence, I may 
look with a smile of content and gratitude : 
for every day has something, has innumerable 
things good and cheerful in it, if I know but 
how to make the best of it. 

In a change of situation, think not like a 
child, of the toys you leave, and the toys you 
shall find, to make you amends for them. All 
play-things are brittle. Think not, like a 
grazing animal, that you have changed one 
pasture for another : and shall graze on this, 
or that herb here, with delight: " The herb 
" withereth, the flower fadeth" every where. 
But think, like a reasonable creature. — This 
change was apointed for me: acquiescence is 
my duty: duty must be my support. Yet I 
know, such is the condescendence of infinite 



Essay xxm. 197 

goodness, that I shall have many a slighter 
relief, and agreeableness thrown in: but these 
are by the bye : not to be reckoned on before- 
hand, nor to be grieved for, if they fail or 
intermit. 



ESSAY XXIV, 



On the Happiness derived from Society. 

What are my ideas of happiness ? Nega- 
tive ones present themselves first. A freedom 
from guilt— from self-dislike— from fear— from 
vexation — from languor — from pain — from 
sorrow* 

The joy of early youth and early morning* 
that is, vigour and capacity for continual im- 
provement, and a long space before one to 
exert them in, with a variety of new and 
noble objects. — But, alas, how am I fitted for 
this, who have acquired such strong habits of 
loitering indolence — lost all power of applica- 
tion. 

Therefore application, a habit of it ought 
to be re-acquired, though the objects of it 
here, are looked upon with the indifference 
they so highly deserve. 

The approbation, and protection, and guid- 
ance of the good, wise, amiable, and great — 
how much have I undeservedly experienced 
of that, even here ! But mixed with a pain- 



Essay xxir. 199 

fulness, and degree of suspicion, from feeling 
that J am nothing, and have no claim to it: 
and that the best of them are but a degree 
above nothing: are fallible, and maybe de- 
ceived, in me, or mislead me : are mortal, 
and must forsake me, and leave me.— But 
look higher, and there is a power, that can 
make us what it will, and goodness that wills 
our happiness, and wisdom, that can fully fit 
us for it: and majesty and amiableness — no 
expression can reach the ideas, that fill the 
soul, in this contemplation and hope. Total 
solitude in the enjoyment of thoughts like 
these, seems, to me, high happiness. — But the 
corruptible body would soon press down the 
mind : the exhausted spirits would sink into 
wretchedness, and there would be a self-re- 
proach for the neglect of social duties. There 
will be duration enough for all, hereafter, and 
strength for every various exertion. There 
are some poor pleasures here, which are only 
such, because the mortal frame requires them, 
as it does food, and sleep. These are what 
one calls relaxations, amusements, trifles, that 
unbend the mind, and vary its ideas agree- 
ably. The sight of gay flowers, or sunny 
landscapes ; the song of birds ; the sportings 
of innocent imagination, in some trifling book; 



200 Essay xxir. 

the gaieties of young animals *. I am very 
thankful for these, in their season, but past 
the moment they are necessary, the landscape 
soon fades, if seen by one's self alone ; and 
the book gives it quite another kind of delight, 
if read in a society, that are equally pleased. 
The amusement of animals, is from seeing 
them happy, and all this tends to promote 
right dispositions, as the contemplation of 
beautiful objects, and sweet sounds, raises the 
mind to grateful adoration. 

The mortal pleasure I can the least know 
how to lay out of my ideas, is the sweet for- 
getfulness of quiet and refreshing sleep : a 
great blessing here, but only here where there 
are cares, and fears and follies to be forgot. 
But if not indulged beyond needful refresh- 
ment, it ought, surely, while we are here, to 
be accepted with humble thankfulness. 

The joys of society are of all others, most 
mixed with pain. Yet where all are perfect, 
and where all are happy, how sublime must 

* How much delight the pious as well as elegant mind 
ef Miss Talbot received from these innocent trifles is par- 
ticularly observable in her Letters to Mrs. Carter from 
Cuddesden. 

See the tl Series of Letters" Vol, J*. 



Essay xxir. 201 

they be * ! Alas my great, my continual 
failure is in social duties ! Why ! Because I 
am almost continually .in society. In solitude, 
one has nothing to do, but to cherish good 
and pleasing dispositions. In society, at every 
unguarded moment, bad and painful ones 
break out, and fill one with shame, remorse, 
and vexation. Selfishness shews its ugly 
head : little contradictions excite vehemence 
of temper, to put out its claws : talkativeness 
prates away the inestimable hours, without 
use or pleasure. Even good humour, and 
easiness of temper must be restrained and 
mortified, else they lead to criminal negli- 
gence, and destructive extravagance. The 
justest affections must be regulated, else they 
tie down the heart too much. On the con- 
trary, justice and gratitude demand often, 
that our kindest affections should be excited 
and exprest, where natural temper and incli- 
nation do not prompt them. We ought with 
the strictest eye of justice to distinguish right 
and wrong in characters, and yet with the 
tenderest charity to overlook, and couipas- 

* And how noble is even the slight insight which the 
inspired writer has given us into it ! 

Se§ H*b, xii. 22, 23, 24- 



.202 Essay xxir. 

s-ionate ten thousand lesser faults, and disa* 
greeablenesses. 

In short, the life of society is the life of con* 
stant, unremitting mortification, and self-de- 
nial. It is this, that makes the only useful 
hardship of the cloister, not the fastings, hair- 
cloths, watch ings, and disciplines. But it is 
really still harder in uncloistered society. To 
keep the mind in right frame, amid ten thou- 
sand interruptions; to be regular, and dili- 
gent, without the possibility of any settled 
plan : to spread cheerfulness when one is not 
pleased : to support in one's self, when others 
are dejected — and a sad look, or a sad word, 
from those I love, sinks my heart : as a good 
word, and a smile raises it instantaneously* 

But far, far better than the cloistered rules 
of man's foolish and arbitrary invention, the 
life of society, with all its self-denials, is the 
appointment of the Almighty. Every indivi- 
dual, of human society, is ennobled, and en- 
deared by its relation to him. For the mean- 
est of these, Christ died. Our love to each 
other, to every one of each other, is the proof 
required of our being his disciples. 

Selfishness therefore must be continually 
overcome, except where some real harm, or 
great pain may be avoided by very slight in- 



Essay xxu\ 203 

convenience : and then it should not be cun- 
ningly contrived, but openly requested : and 
if granted, accepted as a favour, or the re* 
fusal cheerfully acquiesced in* 

But; in other respects, how can we do good? 
Follow as God's providence leads, each in his 
station, within his bounds, and within his 
capacity* Above all keep up cheerfulness 
and good humour. An air of dissatisfaction 
is doubly faulty. It belies your eternal hopes, 
and disheartens all around you. — But con- 
versation is so empty, so useless. — Keep it 
peaceable and innocent, at least. Restrain 
talkativeness in yourself, that you may think 
a little, how to introduce somewhat useful: 
but do not strive too much. Mere good hu- 
mour is very useful : it tunes the mind. Do, 
in every thing, the best you can: and trust 
in better merits, that it shall be accepted. 
Look forward to the conversation of angels, 
and perfected spirits: of those whom you have 
loved, and who have loved you amidst all 
your mutual imperfections here. There will 
be nothing but joy, and eternal improvement. 
All joined in executing the divine will, and 
dwelling on its praises. No more fear of 
sorrow, or parting: no more doubts and jea- 
lousies of yourself: no anxieties for them: 



204 Essay xxir. 

all fixed and secure. Of past sorrows and 
frailties will remain only the everlasting gra- 
titude of those who have been relieved, and 
forgiven. Each to other, in their due de- 
grees : all supremely., to their God and Sa* 
viourl 



ESSAY XXV* 



On Trust in Providence. 

This is a dav * I have cause to bless. Let 
no gloomy thought come near it. But can I 
keep out of my mind, the thought of such a 
friend, as I so lately had ; with a whole train 
of ideas attending that thought? No; un- 
doubtedly: but let me think of that friend, 
and regulate those ideas, as I ought. Let 
me, with humble, joyful gratitude, consider, 
in how many excellent beings I have the in- 
terest of an affectionate and beloved friend. 
Glories of the world! I look clown upon you: 
my happiness, my boast are of a higher kind. 

These friends are, at present, far separated 
from one another, but all happy: and in a 
blessed hereafter, I am permitted humbly but 
joyfully to hope, that we shall all be eternally 
re-united. What mutual gratulations, what 
tender recollections must attend that re-union ! 
And oh, what unspeakable gratitude and 

* Probably her birth-day. 



208 Essay xxr\ 

adoration to him, through whose blessed re* 
demption, that bliss shall be attained, and 
" this mortal put on immortality!" The frail 
human heart can hardly bear the transport 
of the thought ! This idea is too vast, and 
too bright — Yet, it is not a fairy vision, but 
a steadfast, eternal truth. 

Far away, then, all melancholy apprehen- 
sions of death, of pain, of parting, mere sha- 
dows every one ! For what is pain ? An hour 
of trial, the proof of our faith, patience and 
fortitude.- — What is death ? The entrance 
upon our reward, the end of our dangers and 
perplexities, the point to which we have been 
tending from our birth. — What is parting? 
More bitter in itself than death, because it 
leaves us destitute of our dearest supports, in 
a state wherein we seem to need them most. 
This then, as the severest pain, is the no- 
blest trial. And are we not sure that we are 
in the hands of a merciful God, whose every 
attribute is engaged to lay no more upon us, 
than our own faith and own sincere endeavours 
concurring, he will enable U3 to bear, to 
triumph over? 

We are born into this world poor helpless 
creatures: but parents, friends, protectors are 
provided to conduct us up to maturity. An 



Essay xxr. 207 

all-gracious Providence works by what variety 
of instruments it sees fit: but fit instruments 
it never wants, and never can want. The 
seeds of good and evil grow up with us : at 
least, the enemy sows his tares so early that 
they soon overtake the grain. To root out 
the one, and to cherish the other, is the busi- 
ness of life. What is it, to us, by what means, 
or by what change of hands, the Master of 
the harvest vouchsafes to do this? since our 
great concern is only, that it be effectually 
done, and then, we are well assured, that He 
" will gather the wheat into his garner." 

He, who has given the former rain in its 
season, will not deny the latter rain, also, to 
the diligent and pious husbandman. Where 
a merciful Providence has remarkably blest 
the earlier part of life, the well-disposed heart 
need not fear, that the later years of it shall 
be left destitute. Every fit support and 
guidance shall be provided: nay every com- 
fort and delight, that contradicts not some 
still kinder intention, or more important aim. 

Sufferings belong to human nature. Of 
these, some persons have a larger, some a 
lighter share, and this indiscriminately, in 
some measure, to bad and good. This ap- 
pointment is for wise reasons, some of which 



208 Essay xxr\ 

even our poor shallow understandings can 
trace. But the good are assured that they 
shall never want any necessary support, under 
their sufferings: and to know that they are 
liable to them, is one appointed trial of their 
faith, of their submission. A true Christian 
knows, that all these things shall finally work 
together for his good. Why then should he 
dread any of them? 

But when these sufferings are actually 
present, how must they be supported?-— cheer- 
fully. To those who know, that alf is, on 
the whole, well, every passing day brings its 
amusement and relief: and let these be thank- 
fully accepted. Those who are removed out 
of this world are happy: they are removed 
in God's good time. Those, who are con- 
tinued in it, must rejoice in every comfort, 
that attends their continuance: must be 
thankful for every added year. For, is not 
life a blessing? May not this added time be 
improved to most excellent purposes ? Let this 
then be our endeavour. 

While continued in human society, let us 
preserve a sociable, a friendly spirit. Let our 
joyful affectionate remembrance attend those, 
who are removed already into a higher class 
of beinn-s. But let our active love be exerted 



Essay xxv. 209 

towards all our fellow-travellers: and let it 
be our aim, so far as we are enabled, to lead 
many along with us towards those happy 
niansions. This, at present, it seems, is the 
only work we are fit for; and is it not a blessed 
one? 

" Be glad, O ye righteous, and rejoice in 
" the Lord, for a good and pleasant thing it 
« is to be thankful !" 



ESSAY XXVI. 



On the Necessity of innocent Amusement. 

Amusement is useful and laudable, not when 
it draws the mind from religious subjects (in 
this view the world uses it and is destroyed by 
it) but when it takes the thoughts from such 
sorrows as are merely temporal, and imaginary, 
and so refits them for that better employment, 
which, without this harmless medium, they 
could not so soon or so well have resumed. 
The idle mind flies improvement as its enemy, 
and seeks amusement as its end. The Chris- 
tian heart has but one home, one joy, one 
pursuit. But from this home it is too often 
detained: from this joy it is too often shut 
out: in this pursuit it is, too often, hindered, 
by the frailty of human nature, the necessary 
attentions and engagements of life, the attach^ 
ments of affinity, and friendship. 

On this side eternity, cares and sorrows will 
be felt, in some degree, by the best: but the 
Christian, who knows that it is his absolute 
duty to rejoice, and give thanks, in every 



Essay xxii. 21 1 

thing, indulges not those gloomy hours, nor 
wilfully harbours one melancholy thought. 
Yet striving with such thoughts, is only to be 
worse entangled in them. At such times the 
good and humble mind, accepts thankfully 
the assistance of the veriest trifle, the most 
common and uninteresting object, or employ- 
ment, that can dissipate the present chain of 
vain and tiresome thought^ and this chain 
once broken, it flies with recruited vigour to 
its true home, " as a bird out of the snare." 

By common and uninteresting objects, I 
mean only to exclude all indulgences of 
fancy and imagination, and such amusements 
as seem interesting, because they indeed sooth 
the disposition, which we suppose ourselves 
flying from, as, for example, melancholy 
music, and poetically solemn scenes. But, in 
a higher view, the least flower of the field, is 
a more interesting object than the proudest 
palace. For what object can be small or 
uninteresting, that is the work and gift of the 
Almighty! This flower, or insect, or shell, 
would Aspasia say, is given to me, at this in- 
stant, by ever present, ever watchful goodness, 
to call off my thoughts from their present vain 
anxiety, or sinful regret, to the thankful con- 
templation of a gracious Creator and Re- 

p2 



212 Essay xxru 

deemer. — This employment, this company, 
that calls my present attention from subjects, 
it could wish to pursue, though it pursues 
them to its hurt: this dull and unedifying 
company, this dry and trifling employment, is, 
in the order of Providence, a kind remedy, 
to unbend my mind, and thereby restore its 
strength. As such I will thankfully accept 
it, and cheerfully turn myself to it: for if I 
am absent in company, I had better be alone; 
my soul is equally wasting its strength, in 
earnest thought, and melancholy recollection, 
and my appearance discredits the cause of 
religion. 

These are the reasons that make it a duty 
to open the mind to every innocent pleasure: 
to the admiration of every rural object, to 
harmless pleasantry and mirth, to such a ge- 
neral acquaintance with arts and sciences, 
trades and manufactures, books and men, as 
shall enable us to attend to, and to be amused, 
in some degree, with every scene, and with 
every conversation. There is just the same 
pride in resolving, that our minds shall be 
always employed on the stretch, as in ima- 
gining that our reason is a competent judge 
of all subjects: human frailty and imperfec- 
tion, alike forbids both. The Israelites ga- 
6 



Essay xxvi. 213 

thered their manna, from day today: so should 
we our temporal pleasures, and comforts, and 
trust him to provide for to-morrow, who sup- 
plied us yesterday. When, through eagerness 
and fondness of mind, we hoard up, by anxious 
schemes and wishes, a portion for ourselves, it 
breeds but corruption. Only in the ark can 
it be laid up safe *. 

* This poetic and beautiful illustration may not perhaps 
be well understood by those who are not very conversant 
with Bible history. 

See Exod, xvi, 20 and 33 . 



LETTERS TO A FRIEND 



FUTURE STATE, 



CHARACTER OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL, 



LETTER I. 



The curiosity you expressed in a conversa- 
tion, which we heard with pleasure, we may 
within those limits you acknowledged just, 
be permitted to gratify. New discoveries 
must not be expected — Could you explain to 
a child the delights afforded by science? Or 
to one born blind the exquisite sensations pro- 
duced by light and beauty? But so far as 
may be collected from what hath been re- 
vealed, we are ready and delighted to assist 
and guide your search. Startle not at the 
darkness which is before you, and the irre- 
mediable gulph that must be passed. From 
that bourn, one traveller hath returned, and re- 
turning, irradiated the gloomy shades with 
beams of celestial light. In that human form, 
though cloathed with splendour inexpressible, 
he shall again return *. Each guardian angel 
shall then attend the charge, whom, through 
all the scenes of mortal life, he had endea- 

* See Acts i. 11, and Matt. xxv. 31, 



218 Letter r. 

voured to protect * ; and who having by 
humble faith and sincere obedience secured 
the supreme protection, was in the closing 
hour committed to his peculiar care. How 
ineffectual at that dark season are the ten- 
derest soo things of mortal friends ! Yet even 
those soolhings, though blended by sympathy 
for the distress which mingles with them, are 
dear to the sickening heart. But there is one 
who can in the most trying moment, speak ifr 
into instantaneous and eternal joy. By him 
commissioned, how joyfully do we receive the 
wearied combatant — But weariness is vanished ; 
pain and sorrow are for ever gone ; and all 
his sympathy now is with rejoicing, and con- 
gratulating angels. Among the many man- 
sions in the house of our heavenly Father, 
one most delightful be assured there is, as 
completely prepared for the abode and happi- 
ness of the separated spirits of the just, as this 
earth of your's is for the mingled society of 
mortal men. However far the distance of 

* This is a doctrine which, though not expressly taught 
in Scripture, yet receives some countenance from passages 
in it. In heaven their angels do always behold t7iefaee 
of my Father which is in heaven. Matt, xviii. 10. Are 
they not all minis t ring spirits, se?it forth to minister for 
them who shall be heirs of salvation? Heb. i. 14, 



Letter /. 219 

this Paradise, the penitent thief found scarcely 
any interval between that and Calvary. 
Whatever its employments, for spiritual beings 
are ever active, imagine not that they can 
alter the state of its final account. That at 
the hour of death is irrevocably closed. As 
the tree falleth * so shall it lie. If stunted 
here no other spring shall ever add to its 
growth : if it was hitherto unfruitful, no fu- 
ture autumn shall enrich its idle branches. 
But still, there may be employments num- 
berless, more delightful than you can conceive. 
New faculties may be expanding — but enough 
for this once. Think frequently of these so- 
lemn, these exalting subjects ; but think not 
too intensely. Let not the speculations of 
eternity encroach on the duties of time. In 
this only now you can exercise the human 
virtues — go, relieve the distressed; sympathize 
with the afflicted ; rejoice with the innocently 
cheerful; cement the ties of friendship ; pro- 
mote the inseparable cause of religion and 
virtue; enjoy and improve the comforts of 
society; and patiently suffer the infirmities 
and sorrows of mortality. One morning in 
the week you shall find a Letter on the table 
from 

Your Guardian though your 

Fellow-Servant, 
* Eccles. xi, 3. 



LETTER II. 



The week is come round, and you expect 
to find another Letter; but affected as you 
are, my poor mortal charge, with every 
variety of the wintry season, are you fit to 
attend to these sublimer subjects ? Attempt 
not contemplations beyond your little strength. 
Be satisfied that the time will come when we 
shall be permitted freely and delightfully to 
discourse with you, because then you will be 
able to bear and to comprehend our discourse. 
Know you not that " eye hath not seen nor 
" ear heard" those things which Almighty 
goodness hath prepared ; and how then should 
we convey to you any ideas of them? But so 
much you may know, and therefore should 
know, as may fill you with cheerful hope, 
and excite you to ardent pursuit of the inesti- 
mable prize. And yet amid the toils and 
miseries of mortal life, it might seem that 
merely negative descriptions might content 
you. To rest from care and sorrow — to in- 
dulge without a fault a long sweet unmolested 
repose, in the assurance of waking to a joyous 



Letter n. 221 

everlasting morning! Might not this, my 
indolent charge, well satisfy your wishes for 
the present ? No. You would fain know if 
this sleep is at least varied by delightful 
dreams, as you suspect that your mind even 
in sleep is never totally idle. But I must not 
let you farther into the theory even of dreams 
than your own observations may lead you. 
What hint was it you caught so long ago in 
Mr. Locke of sleeping meditations ? Pursue it 
if you can. Observe you not sometimes that 
you wake out of quite a different sort of world 
from that to which your days are accustomed ? 
And yet at the time all its scenery has appeared 
familiar to you, and not unpleasing *. On 
your efforts to grasp them by recollection the 
thin ideas shrink away, and in a few moments 
are quite vanished. Strive not to retain them 
— the talents committed to your trust now, are 

* It is an idea prevalent in the East, that the soul quits 
the body, and is actually present in the scenes represented 
in the dream. Some Christians also seem to entertain a 
similar opinion. The late learned Mr. Porson was col- 
lecting materials towards forming a theory of this kind ; 
and made anxious enquiries of his friends whether they 
had ever distinctly dreamt of any known animal when 
dead; obviously supposing that the soul, in its nocturnal 
excursions, could have no communication with those de- 
ceased creatures which have no souls. 



222 Letter ir. 

your waking active hours. Perhaps but few 
remain, Improve them to the utmost: then 
shall you give up your account with joy. But 
where, you ask, are now those companions of 
your former years, whose time of trial is over, 
whose trust is discharged, who no longer 
mingle in this active scene, for whom the sun 
rises and sets no more ? Where ? Why equally 
in the divine presence as yourself — recollect 
you not the time, in former days of fancy, 
when you fondly delighted to contemplate the 
moon because a favourite distant friend might 
possibly at the same time be gazing on the 
same bright object ? This fancy seemed to 
cancel distance, and bring you near together., 
Think then that not the waning moon but the 
source of glory shines on them with the same 
gracious beams, that in mercy extend even to 
you. But, oh ! with how much brighter lustre ? 
Yet should they, for reasons infinitely wise and 
kind, be kept for a while in unconscious se- 
curity, consider that to them, who are now 
become heirs of eternity, a thousand years 
will pass over as one day — while to you one 
day ought to seem as important as a thousand 
years, since millions of ages may depend upon 
it. Oh learn to improve it well. To awaken 
you to diligence with the continual repetition 

1 



Letter u. 223 

of this important lesson, I amuse your curiosity 
find converse with you in this unusual manner, 
on the subject that has most excited it. Me- 
ditate often on futurity : but not so as vainly 
to trifle away present time. This is certain, 
that the friends you loved, exist now as really 
as when you conversed with them, and much 
more happily. A more infallible word than 
mine hath assured you, that they are blessed : 
that they rest from their labours : and that 
their ivories follow them. Follow them now, 
for ought you know, with a pleasing though 
humble consciousness of faithful though im- 
perfect endeavours: and will follow them 
on that great day, for which all other days 
are made, with a crown of everlasting praise 
and joy. 



LETTER III. 



Your meditations have been busy again 
about unseen futurities ; your eye is impatiently 
cast every morning on your table, and you 
eagerly expect another Letter from your invi- 
sible attendant ; though you have yet learnt 
nothing new from either of the former. There 
is somewhat in your curiosity that ought for 
your good to be checked, and yet somewhat 
laudable in it that deserves to be indulged. 
Your thoughts cannot be more nobly employed, 
nor fixed on a more absolute certainty than 
that future state which now engages them, 
There is also a grateful affection to many dear 
friends whom you once justly numbered among 
your greatest earthly blessings, that makes you 
fondly inquisitive into their actual situation 
and employment. That their situation is 
happy and certain ; that they are in peace ; 
that the souls of the righteous are in the hand 
of God, and there shall no torment touch them ; 
that our common Lord will raise them up at 
the last day, body and soul ; and call them to 
a participation of his ineffable joy ; of all this 



Letter in. 225 

you are infallibly assured. And can you not 
be contented to live by such a faith ? Must 
the fond eye of imagination needs be soothed 
with a fancied sight of pleasing scenes, and a 
Christian elysium ? Why, be it so ; the lively 
powers of sweet imagination were granted to 
the children of men with a gracious intent to 
counterbalance the low cares and frequent 
sufferings of their mortal state. It is their own 
fault when imagination is taught to excite 
every hurtful passion, and add fresh stings to 
every pain. So far as your's can travel along 
with tolerably rational conjecture, and under 
the guidance of submissive resignation, I am 
content for the present half hour (as you mor- 
tals parcel out that pittance of duration which 
you call time) to attend her airy steps. Per- 
haps I may even help her over the first bar. 
Since as the tree falleth so it must lie, you are 
inclined to think there can be no increase in 
goodness during that whole length of time 
that stretches from the hour of death to the 
last period of human things : and during your 
Christian race you have been so justly taught 
to consider standing still as in effect going back, 
that you cannot form an idea how thousands 
of years should innocently and happily pass 
over creatures unimproved in their course. 



226 Letter in. 

Continual improvement is the law of your- 
mortal state of trial — he who loiters in a race 
must lose, but he who has happily reached 
the goal may rest. Perhaps beyond the period 
of these stars and planets, new amazing 
scenes of delightful activity, and extatic pro- 
gression to inconceivable improvement, with 
still brighter crowns in view, may be for ever 
opening on the spirits of the blessed. Allow 
them a few ages of recruit before they are to 
enter on the boundless barrier. Of this for 
the present no more. Is your first difficulty 
removed ? As the tree falleih so it must lie. 
True : there can after your present state of 
trial is ended, be no change from bad to good. 
But who hath told you that there may be no 
change from good to better ? each spirit still 
keeping its own proportion, but each in that 
proportion advancing still to new degrees of 
knowledge, of charity, of devotioij, and raptu- 
rous gratitude ? Increase in knowledge cannot 
be made by such a spirit as hath by the all- 
gracious Redeemer been accepted in the hour 
of death, without bringing proportionable im- 
provements in every divine affection. But these 
are no longer, as in this world rewardahle 
since they are no longer a toil, a struggle, a 
victory ; but mere necessity of nature, an 
earnest and a blessed part of the infinite reward 



Letter iir. 227 

which He hath obtained for all that will. Oh 
think frequently of this, my frail charge; 
think that you may attain — that you may 
forfeit your share in this inestimable blessed- 
ness. Whoever will, may take the waters of 
life and drink freely. And will you bestow 
your thoughts and care on broken cisterns and 
muddy streams. Think how the friends 
whom you have so dearly loved and lamented, 
may by this time be improved, and that if you 
press on here, you too shall hereafter attain to 
your proportionable improvement. Endeavour 
even to overtake the foremost excellence. To 
awaken you out of heartless despondency — to . 
rouse you from dangerous indolence, is an 
important part of my commission — the shield- 
ing you from bodily peril, or relieving you in. 
painful moments, is nothing in comparison. 
What availed the temporary preservation of the 
unprofitable tree, if after all the pains bestowed, 
it was at last cut down as a cumber er of the 
ground * ? That last must soon come, but if 
the tree bear good fruit well — it will not then 
be cut down, but transplanted into the groves 
of Paradise. 

* See Luke xiii. 6, &e: 
Q2 



DIALOGUES, 



V : -YORK. 



DIALOGUE I, 



Description of a Moral hut not Gloomy 
Retirement, 

My clear friend Imagination, what place 
will you allot for my Winter's habitation, 
when I have a mind to retire from the hurry 
of the town, and review the actions of every 
passing day ? 

A little hermitage, on the eastern side of 
the highest mountain, in the kingdom of 
Katascopia *. 

Order a set of ideas to be put to your rapid 
chariot, and transport me thither as soon as 
you please ; for I am already charmed with 
the proposal. 

A winding path leads you by an impercepti- 
ble ascent, through groves of laurels, bays^ 
pines, oaks, cedars, myrtles, and all kinds of 
beautiful ever-greens, with which the sides 
of the mountains are eternally covered, to an 

* Contemplation* 



232 Dialogue i* 

apartment cut out in the substance of the rock/ 
and consisting of two rooms. You enter into 
the first, through an arch hewn out, without 
much art; and whose only ornaments are the 
ivy, with which it is almost entirely overgrown, 
and the chrystalline isicles, which winter 
hangs on the inequalities of its surface. The 
only light that it receives, is through this arch : 
and the plainness of the furniture is answerable 
to that of the building* The floor is covered 
with a kind of moss, that is always dry : and 
a couch of the same goes round the room* 
On the right side, at the further end, is a 
little stone-table, with the Hermit's usual 
furniture, a book, a skull, an hour-glass, and 
a lamp, Near the mouth of the cave is a teles- 
cope : and on the left side, a small door opens 
into a little square apartment, formed to in- 
dulge less melancholy meditations. Opposite 
to the entrance, are shelves filled with books, 
of a serious and moral nature, that take up one 
side of the room. A bed of plain white dimity, 
with two chairs of the same, is opposite tp the 
chimney, where a cheerful wood fire is con- 
tinually blazing. Near the fire is placed a 
little table, and a low seat, more for convent 
ence, than show ; and the w r alis are covered 



Dialogue i. 233 

with a white paper, over which, a vine seems 
to spread its leafy shade. 

You have described this retirement to mv 
wish. A mere hermitage would be too gloomy 
for a constant dwelling. And yet there are 
many hours in which the solemnity of the out- 
ward cell, with the moon shining into it, and 
faintly gleaming on its melancholy furniture, 
would suit my turn of thought, better than the 
brightest sun, glittering on the gayest scenes, 

I have not yet mentioned to you the most 
agreeable circumstance of the outward cell* 
its delightful and extensive view. 

Is not that obstructed by the groves of ever- 
greens, through which you ascend to this seat 
of calm wisdom ? 

It is placed high enough for the spectator 
to look over their venerable tops, and see the 
current of life, a wide extended ocean, gliding 
swiftly along, at the foot of the mountain. 
Beyond it, but half concealed in woods, lie 
the happy islands, and the bleak and doleful 
regions, where all that infinite number of 
barks, that cover this immense ocean, sooner 
or later dislodge their weary passengers. The 
observations you will make, from this emi- 
nence, on the course of the sea, the various 
rocks and whirlpools, that jnake its passage 



234 Dialogue i. 



C3 



dangerous; tlie conduct of the pilots, and the 
behaviour of the passengers, will give you 
important instructions, for the guidance of 
your own bark. You may even see your 
own : and by a timely observance, avoid every 
danger that threatens it, and improve every 
favourable gale, to the best advantage. 



DIALOGUE II. 



Enquiry how far Practice has kept pace with 
Intention. 

What have you done, this Summer ? 

Rode, and laughed, and fretted. 

What did you intend to do? 

To learn geography, mathematics, decimal 
fractions, and good humour: to work a screen, 
draw copies of two or three fine prints, and 
read abundance of history : to improve my 
memory, and restrain my fancy : to lay out 
my time to the best advantage: to be happy 
myself, and make every body else so, To 
read Voltaire, Newton, Whiston's Euclid and 
Tillotson's Sermons. 

Have you read nothing? 

Yes : some of the Sermons ; Mrs. Howe's 
Works; the Tale of a Tub; a book of Dr. 
Watts's; L'Histoire du Ciel; Milton, and 
abundance of plays and idle books. 

Do you remember nothing of your geo- 
graphy ? 

Not so much as what belongs to England. 

Mathematics — 

7 



§36 Dialogue if. 

Turn my head. 

And what is your fine head good for? 

To wear a pair of Brussels lappets, or spii> 
out extravagant imaginations and fancies. 

How does your arithmetic go on ? 

I have bought one of the best books on the. 
subject, 

And studied it? 

O no : I have not read a page in it. 

This is the way too, in which you study 
natural history? 

Yes: I have bought Reaumur's works, and 
set them on my shelves.. 

Well : but are you good humoured ? 

yes: mightily so, when I am pleased and 
entertained. 

But a trifle puts you out of humour? 

Yes, perhaps it does: but then, I am ten 
times more out of humour with myself than 
with other people. 

So that, upon the whole, you are satisfied 
\vith your temper? 

Very tolerably, as the world goes* 

And do not you think yourself at all vain? 

1 do not think, what is commonly called 
vanity, so terrible a thing, as it is generally 
reckoned. 

What do ypu mean by this ? 



Dialogue tu 237 

I mean, that if it were possible, people ought 
to be as well acquainted with their own cha- 
racters, at least, as with those of other persons ; 
and therefore ought to know their good qua- 
lities, as well as their faults. 

This, in itself, is not vanity : but it is the 
ready path to it. 

How so ? 

If you were standing on a high hill, from 
whence you had two very different views, one 
adorned with all that can make a landscape 
beautiful; the other leading your eye through 
barren moors, dreary caverns, and frightful 
precipices: which do you think you should 
spend most time in looking at? 

The answer is a very clear one : If I had 
no interest in either of the views, I should 
admire the fine landscape, and perhaps take 
a copy of it. 

Well, but suppose them both in your own 
estate? You seem to think that would make 
some difference, in your way of proceeding. 

Yes, to be sure, a very great one. In that 
case I should spend the greatest part of my 
time in considering, by what methods I could 
level the precipices, render the barren heaths 
fruitful, and make that part of my estate as 



238 Dialogue //. 

useful and delightful as the other: but still it 
would be necessary to observe the other pros- 
pect, for this very purpose, of imitating it. 

If you had not added this last reason for 
looking at the gay side of the view, you had 
proved, what was far from your intention, that 
it is our faults, and not our perfections, which 
ought to claim our attention. 

There are twenty reasons for this, besides 
that which I mentioned. To continue your 
allegory: with what spirit do you think, it 
would be possible for a man to set about so 
difficult a work, as those improvements must 
be, if he did not know, that he had an estate 
sufficient to support the expence, and an 
agreeable place to retire to, when he was 
wearied with his less pleasing employment? 

This is but one of the twenty. 

But it is strong enough to be equal to half 
a score of less weight. However, you shall 
have another — 

There is no need of it. I am sensible that 
a man ought to- know the true value of what 
he possesses, both that he may enjoy it, with 
due gratitude to the giver, and that he may 
take sufficient care., to preserve it at least, and 
perhaps to improve it still further. But when 



Dialogue iu 239 

this is granted you will allow mo, that it' is 
very disagreeable for a rich man to be always 
boasting of the greatness of his estate and the 
magnificence of his palaces. 

Mqst certainly. Nor is it less disgustful 
to hear a man, who is well known to all the 
world to have a very considerable fortune, 
always complaining of his poverty, and, under 
a feiVned humility, concealing the most hate- 
ful pride. 

So that, upon the whole, all extremes ought 
to be avoided, even though, sometimes, they 
may seem to border upon a virtue. 

This is the lightest conclusion in the world; 
but the misfortune is, that it is no new disco- 
very of ours, but has been the allowed and 
wise precept of all ages *, 

That does not make it at all the less valuable 
to us. Do you not think, we should be much 
happier in being able to follow the maxim, 
than in being able to give it? 

I should wish to be capable of both. 

Pray, my dear, how old are you? 

Eighteen last Mayf\ 

* Virtus est medium vitiorum et utrinque reductum, 

Hor. Epist. i. 18. 
t If, as it seems, Miss Talbot was only eighteen whea 
she wrote this dialogue, she must have possessed a sur~ 



240 Dialogue it. 

You have lived eighteen years in the worlds 
you say : pray may I enquire what you have 
done in all that time? 

My life has not, as yet, been one of much 
action. I have been chiefly employed in lay- 
ing in provision of knowledge and sentiments, 
for future years. 

Well: shall I examine your magazine? you 
will have occasion for it all, and ought to have 
it chosen with the utmost care. 

Which will you look into first, my heart or 
my memory? Here are the keys of both. 

Your memory is next at hand. It is a pretty 
cabinet, and not one of the smallest size: but 
I have seen a japan cabinet kept in much 
better order, though it was filled only with 
shells. 

I wish yovi would help me to set the 
drawers a little in order. What do you meet 
with in the first ? 

Fragments of all sorts and kinds. Truly I 
think it is like a museum: there are some 
valuable things in it, but they are almost hid 
amongst mere trash. — I need look no further. 
I perceive already, that your memory is so 

prising knowledge of the human heart, and an uncom- 
mon justness of reasoning for that early time of life. 



Dialogue n. 241 

idly filled, that your wish of giving wise 
maxims, is a very wild one. So I will con- 
clude, my dear, with advising you, to be very 
well contented, if you can but follow those 
of other people.. 



DIALOGUE III. 



Danger of too much Prosperity without the 
Assistance of real Friends. 

Come to my assistance, my friend, my ad- 
viser. I feel myself oppressed and low spi- 
rited, to the greatest degree ; all my thoughts 
have a disagreeable turn; my employments 
seem burthensome, and my amusements in- 
sipid. A moment's serious conversation with 
you, seems the only thing that is likely to give 
me relief. 

I should little have thought, that your situa- 
tion in life required relief, or wanted any assist- 
ance, to make you sensible of its agreeable- 
ness. 

I know, that I have every reason, except 
that which arises from merit, to think myself 
the happiest creature in the world : and no- 
body can be more fully and more gratefully 
sensible of it than I am: nor is it my reason 
that complains. 



Dialogue in. 243 

It is not then your situation in life, that sinks 
your spirits. 

It is the very situation, that answers Cowley's 
wish *, and mine: nor would I change with 
the greatest princess. 

Nor is it the want of friends to make that 
situation agreeable. 

In this respect, you know, that ho mortal 
was ever so remarkably happy as I am. No- 
body had ever, I believe, the advantage of 
such amiable examples of affectionate care, 
guided by such excellent sense and goodness. 
I feel too much upon this article to express it 
at all well: and my thoughts flow in so fast> 
that I cannot find words for them. But I was 
going to add, that nobody ever wanted this 
advantage so much as I do, whose too easy 
temper might, perhaps insensibly, follow a bad 
example, if fortune had thrown it in my way. 
But however that be, of this I am sure, that 
never was a mind so helpless, so distressed as 
mine would be, if it had been left in this 
wide world, without guides, who possess all 
my love and confidence. 

Is it bad health, then, that prevents your 

* See his Poem so called, p. 79. of TonsWs edition of 
1721. 

r 2 



244 Dialogue in. 

enjoying the happiness, that seems to attend 
on all your steps ? 

Nothing less: I never knew a painful ill- 
ness. My sleeps are sweet, and uninterrupted, 
and those slight disorders, to which I am some- 
times liable, only serve to make me sensible of 
the value of the great share of health and 
ease, which I for the most part enjoy : and to 
shew me the most engaging instances of good- 
ness, in those about me. I speak this so seri- 
ously that I believe I scarce ever had a fever 
or cough in my life, that did not occasion me 
more pleasure tlMn uneasiness: and the hours 
of retirement they have afforded me, are none 
of the least obligations which I have to them *l 

* To a well regulated mind suffering will appear to be 
t least as beneficial a gift of God as happiness is. So 
sung our moral Poet : 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 

As you Like it. 



DIALOGUE IV. 



Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of 
Vanity. 

What is vanity? 

Ask your own heart. 

And is it very blameable ? 

It destroys all the merit of every thing that 
is good: and all the grace of every thing that 
is amiable. 

But may not one love to be commended ? 

According as the commendation is. 

Methinks, now, it would be more vanity to 
be so self-sufficient, as not to wish the suffrages 
of good and wise peeple, to make one satisfied, 
that one's conduct is right. 

But what can you say for the pleasure you 
feel upon being commended for trifles, or ap- 
proved by idle people? 

Why, it is but common good nature to 
wish to please every body, without exception, 
so far as it may innocently be done. 

Yet favour, you know, is deceitful. — And 



246 Dialogue ir. 

so far for trifles, and in things most import- 
ant, remember the strict and solemn charge, 
that we do not our good actions before men, 
to be seen of them. 

Yet we are as strictly charged to let our 
light shine before them, and to set them a good 
example for the honour of religion. 

Most true. The golden medium must be 
found, nice as it is to hit: our highest interest, 
our all depends upon it. If praise be our 
aim, praise, the poor praise of wretched men, 
shall be our barren reward. Yet if timor- 
ously we hide our one talent in a napkin, even 
that shq.ll be taken away from us. 

How dreadful the thoughts of missing that 
only approbation, which it should be the bu- 
siness of our life to deserve! No natural de- 
sire of the friendship and good-will of our 
fellow-creatures can stand in competition with 
that fear. 

Happy the cloistered life, where the world 
is quite shut oat : and piety and virtue are 
exercised in solitude and silence without any 
visible eye to observe them! 

That sure is an extreme, the extreme of the 
buried talent. Let me tell you what I think 
must be the only rule lo go by. 

Oh ! tell it : no sound cap be so welcome. 



Dialogue iK 247 

The rule of duty. Attend solely to that, 
and let all self-reflections alone. 

How! never examine my conduct? Never 
call my follies to account? 

Yes: but have you never read (^with re- 
gard to virtues) of " forgetting the things 
" that are behind, and ever pressing for- 
" ward?" 

Well; yet in an hour of sickness, adversity, 
distress, may no glad hope from the remem- 
brance of having always acted from a sincere 
right intention, however imperfectly pursued, 
cast its reviving ray athwart the gloom ? 

The comforts of a good conscience are no 
vanity. There is in them an important re- 
ality. But cordials, in the day of health, are 
poisons. 

Then be particular: what is this rule of 
duty ? 

Whatever the exigence of the present cir- 
cumstance most immediately and clearly de- 
mands, Pursue always one strait path, with- 
out ever stepping out of the way, either to 
attract observation, or to avoid it. 

What is the rule in cases of charity? 

Chuse to do good in the most private man- 
ner, whenever that is a matter of choice. 
But as this is, in many cases, quite impossible. 



248 Dialogue iv. 

do as quietly as you can, all the goorl that is 
incumbent on you : that is, all the good von 
are capable of, in your station, and without 
interfering, where you absolutely ought not to 
interfere. If you meet with commendation for 
it, be if possible so much the more humble : 
as knowing those seeds of vanity to be in you, 
that may, upon the slightest praise, have 
such a sad effect, as to render the best you 
have done, less than nothing. 

Alas, it is terrifying to consider, how many 
persons have fallen, from not inconsiderable 
advancement in goodness, though mere pre- 
sumption, and self-opinion ! And yet can one 
help wishing to please ? 

No certainly: there would be something 
savage in a contrary disposition. But then, 
look to it, that this desire be free from vanity. 
It may be quite so. 

Can it be without some self-complacence in 
its gratification ? 

It cannot be without some sense of plea- 
sure: but from what? Self, in every one of 
us human creatures, is the wretchedest, the 
poorest of beings. The pleasure results from 
a gratetul reflection on the fulness and bounty 
of that gracious Being, whose gift alone is 



Dialogue jr. 249 

every thing, that can give us delight, with 
every capacity of tasting it. 

In this view then, we may innocently 
desire, that his gifts of some good qualities to 
us. should be the instruments of conveying his 
gift also of some benefit or pleasure to our 
fellow-creatures ; and that in return, they 
should in a lower degree, be pleased with us. 

I think so indeed. 

But what say you to the duty of setting a 
good example, and contributing so far as 
private persons can, to keep virtue and religion 
in countenance ? 

It is surely a very important one. But it 
requires a daily, hourly guard over the heart, 
to see that no secret vanity poisons the good 
intention. 

And what is to be said of affability, good- 
humour, easy behaviour, and endeavouring 
to make ourselves agreeable ? 

Let but your whole behaviour flow uniformly 
from one fixed principle of duty, and you may 
always be secure. Be therefore equally affa- 
ble to all kinds of people : study to please 
even those who are far from pleasing you : 
make yourself agreeable to those, whose praise 
you are sure you do not seek. Study to oblige 
the heavy, the low T , the tedious ; and in what- 
9 



250 Dialogue iv. 

ever company you are, never aim at what is 
called shining. Do all this, and you may 
very allowably strive to please in agreeable 
company too : and may be satisfied yon act 
from sociable good humour and not from 
vanity. 

But tell me : is it possible to see one's self in 
the right, and another in the wrong, without 
feeling a little superiority f 

Yes; if you will consider the matter a little 
coolly over, you will see it to be very possible 
to adhere to your own better judgment, without 
the least triumph, and indeed with the truest 
huteility. 

Instruct me, I beseech you. 

Consider first, this very inclination to be 
over-pleased, is a very dangerous weakness : 
one that you are ashamed to own, since any 
expressions of self-esteem are contrary to all 
rules of true politeness ; and true politeness 
has its foundation in the nature of things. 
Therefore, whenever you feel any sentiment, 
that you should be ashamed to express, be 
assured thai they ought equally to be ashamed 
of indulging it in silence. The first emotions 
of the mind are, indeed, in some measure 
involuntary: the giving encouragement to 
them is all, for which we shall be accountable, 






Dialogue if. 251 

and the thought may very commendably pass 
through the mind, that becomes faulty if it 
dwells there*. Self-applause of any thing 
ever so praise-worthy is like Orpheus conduct- 
ing Eurydice. It must needs accompany it : 
but if the pleasure of looking back and ad- 
miring be indulged, the fair frail object 
vanishes into nothing. 

So : while you take breath after that simile, 
let me ask a few more questions. 

I have not done with the last yet, You 
will say, how can we be even the more hum- 
ble for seeing other people's faults? 

Not improbably. 

Why : are we not partakers of the self- 
same erring nature ? Are not we as liable fo 
err as they ? 

No: surely there is a difference between 
good and bad, knowing and ignorant, pru- 
dent and rash. 

Is there ? Well : what do you imagine then 
of our first parents, formed in the highest 
perfection of uncorrupted nature, conversant 

* Evil into the mind of God or man 

May come and go, so unapproved, and leave 
No spot or blame behind. 

Par. Lost, Booh r* 



252 Dialogue iv. 

daily with celestial visitors, and by them in- 
structed ? 

I see your inference, and it is strictly just. 

— They fell. — What then are we ? Yet. we in 
this blessed period of the world, in this its 
last two thousand years, have higher advan- 
tages, and surer supports and stronger assist- 
ances. 

Most true. But are these to make us vain, 
or to make us humble ? 

Humble, I own it. We have nothing that 
we can call our own : nothing that pride and 
self-conceit may not forfeit : and the greater 
our advantages, the more terrifying is the 
possibility of losing them. 

Reflect, in every history you read, what 
impression it leaves on you of the gross of 
mankind. Then think, all these passions, all 
these weaknesses are originally, more or less 
in every one of us. If you were still liable to 
the infection of the small-pox, and were hourly- 
exposed to it in a town, where it raged among 
almost all Use inhabitants, with what kind of 
sentiments should you see them labouring 
under all its dreadful circumstances, and 
what kind of triumph and self-approbation 
should you feel, from your own high health, 
and smooth complexion ? 



Dialogue ir. 253 

I should only, with fear and trembling, 
double my caution to preserve them if possi- 
ble. 

And were you safe got through the illness, 
how strong would be your sympathy with 
those yet suffering? 

Yet might I not, and ought I not to pre- 
scribe to them such methods of cure, or even 
of present relief and ease, as I had experienced 
to be most successful ? 

Yes: but would the praise be your's or your 
physician's ? 

All characters upon record are not thus 
terrifying. We partake the same nature 
with saints and heroes. 

Can that raise any vanity ? A noble and an 
honest pride it may: a glorious, a laudable 
ambition to imitate their virtues. But to see 
others of our own nature mounted up so high, 
our eye can scarcely follow them, is surely to 
us, poor, dull, and weak creatures, of short 
sight and feeble pinion, mortifying enough. 

You teach me the best lesson, that can be 
learned from history, a deep, a practical and 
unfeigned humility. Society with all its 
various scenes will te^ch the same: and all 
those things, which if vanity engross us, 
minister so abundantly to self-conceit, con- 



254 Dialogue iv. 

tempt, disdain, and every evil disposition of 
the heart, will, if humility be our directress, 
heighten in us every right affection. Our 
hearts will overflow wrh gratitude to our su- 
preme Benefactor, and pour themselves out in 
the most earnest desires of his continual assist- 
ance and protection. They will melt with the 
kindest commiseration to our erring fellow- 
creatures: and they will, without forming one 
ambitious scheme, be most happily and meekly 
content with whatever situation Providence 
allots us. 

The disposition of humility being thus valu- 
able, let me add one consideration more, 
which may help to confirm it, and may teach 
us to avoid that great danger it incurs, from 
our knowing ourselves at any time in the 
right. The more strong we are in our opinion, 
the more lively our dislike is of the opposite 
error, fault, or folly, the more humbled we 
should be at the thought, (which in general is 
a certain fact, though we are blind perhaps as 
to the particulars) that however right we 
are in this instance, in some others, too proba- 
bly in very many others, we are quite as much 
in the wrong, as those we now despise and 
blame. Error is just as ugly in us, as in 
them : If our sense of it be as strong, uglier 
3 



Dialogue iv. 255 

still and more unpardonable. And yet how 
many have fallen themselves into the very 
faults, they most violently condemned : 

How true is all this ! Let me add to it a 
thought, that just now rises to my mind, or 
rather a whole group. 

It is true, the subject is inexhaustible : but 
our time you know was limited, and the clock 
is just striking. 



DIALOGUE V. 



On the Nature of human Happiness. 

Lisaura was complaining one day to Paulina, 
that happiness was no where to be found. 
How do you contrive, said she, to be cheerful 
and easy, so constantly contented in your 
appearance ? When, I am convinced, that at 
the bottom, you must have some lurking dis- 
satisfaction, some concealed uneasiness, that 
secretly diffuses its venom over your enjoy- 
ments ? 

It is true, said Paulina, my history is pretty 
extraordinary, and my life, has been crost by 
a thousand accidents, that reason and religion 
apart, would make my happiness appear 
doubtful enough. But prithee, Lisaura, how 
do you come to suspect it, who, I am per- 
suaded, know little of my real story, and are 
young enough to judge of the sincerity of 
other people's appearance, by your own. 

Why, it is from that very cause you name, 
replied Lisaura. In all the bloom of health 
and youth, in all the ease of situation imagin- 



. Dialogue r. 257 

able, I still perceive a discontent, that preys 
upon my heart. Sometimes, I am anxious for 
the long futurity even of common life, that 
lies before me : that lies, like a wild, unknown, 
and barren plain, wrapt up in thick fogs of 
uncertainty. Sometimes I lose myself in 
melancholy reflections on the past. My cares, 
and attentions, which then so busily engaged 
me, seem now such a heap of impertinences, 
and follies, that I sicken at them, and at my- 
self. And then, what a strong presumption 
do they give one, even against those of the 
present hour! That present hour, how vain is 
it, how uneasy, what a very trifle will entirely 
sour it ! With all this, any body that consi- 
dered my situation in life, would pronounce 
me happy. How then can I be secure of the 
happiness of any other person ? 

Shall I tell you, answered Paulina, why 
you are not sure of your own ? 

Oh most willingly, cried Lisaura. 

Well then, resumed Paulina— but come my 
dear, tell me a little of the assembly you were 
at, last week. 

The transition is a little hasty, said Lisaura, 
smiling. 

No matter for that, you will lose nothing 



258 Dialogue r. 

by it, in the end : perhaps I may give you a 
more studied discourse in the afternoon. 

Well then, what can I tell you, but that I 
was fatigued to the greatest degree ; and after 
long expectation, and five hours vain pursuit 
of amusement, came home, at last, utterly dis- 
satisfied. 

Amusement ! That is a very general word : 
in what shape did you think, that it was to 
appear to you ? 

Lisaura coloured, and Paulina went on. 
Your mistake, dear Lisaura, in life, is the 
very same, that it was in this assembly, and 
will lead you into the same dissatisfied satiety. 
You, not you only, but most young people, 
form to yourself a general and vague idea of 
happiness, which, because it is uncertain in 
its being, is as variable as your temper: so 
that whenever you meet with any thing that 
does not exactly suit the present humour, you 
imagine you have missed of happiness : and so 
indeed you have ; but quite in a different way. 
The perfect idea of happiness, belongs to 
another world : as such it is always to be kept 
in view, and therein consists the point of 
human happiness, which no vicissitudes of 
human affairs can alter. 



Dialogue r. 259 



Ct 



But human happiness has separate from 
this, a very real existence, and has distin- 
guishing characteristics of its own. One of 
these is imperfection : and a necessary one it 
is to be known. Our business, in this world, 
was not to sit down, and be satisfied, but to 
rub on through many difficulties, and through 
manyduties, with just accommodations enough 
to support us among them in a cheerful frame 
of mind ; such a cheerful and easy frame of 
mind, as is at all times, disposed to relish the 
beauties of nature, and the comforts of so- 
ciety, though not enough attached to them, 
to make the parting difficult. 

To form any other notion of happiness, 
than this, is a folly that will punish itself. 
Duty excepted, all the concerns of human life 
are of slight importance : and when once Ave 
have possessed our minds of that belief, all 
those mysterious phantoms, that gave us such 
real anxiety, will immediately disappear. The 
opinion of the world, figure, obscurity, poverty, 
wealth, contempt, fear, pain, affliction, will 
appear to be momentary concerns, and there- 
fore little worth long hours of serious thought. 
Yet all these things are worth so much, hat 
just as far as reason directs us, it is matter of 
duty to pursue, or avoid them. But when 

s 2 



260 Dialogue v. 

choice has nothing to do, content is every 
thing. Content did I say? I should have 
added, gratitude ; for much indeed, the 
state even of this world deserves. For that* 
however, I will refer you to Dr. Barrow. He 
lies upon my table, above stairs : and has 
something in his style so sweet, so strong and 
animated, that I cannot recommend you a 
better companion. 

I have often been charmed with him at 
home, replied Lisaura, and, as fond as you 
see me of idle amusement, I am not insen- 
sible to the excellencies of so grave an author. 
I have been pleased to hear very good judges 
call him the English Demosthenes : and I have 
felt a secret delight in hearing applied to this 
noble orator, who (in spite of those peculiar 
expressions, which the copiousness of his dic- 
tion seems to call in, from all parts) has so 
often warmed me with sentiments unknown 
before, what Longinus says of the other, that 
one might as well face the dazzling lighten- 
ing, as stand against the force of his elo- 
quence. Bless me, how do I run on ! You 

were teaching me to be happy, pursue the 
lesson. I have done. 

I'll tell you then, my clear Lisaura : attend 
\o me. Convinced by reason and religion, 



Dialogue v. 261 

that the evils of life are mere phantoms, pre- 
pare yourself with resignation, to submit to 
them, with constancy to support them. To lay 
in such a stock of strength, you must call in the 
assistance of many a leisure hour, of many a 
serious thought, of many an earnest resolu- 
tion. By these means, all will grow clear in 
your own mind : reflection will become your 
best friend, and most agreeable companion, 
and whatever destiny attends you, you will 
acquiesce in it with pleasure. 

But your misfortune is that of a splenetic 
constitution : a day's slight disorder, a heavier 
temperament of the air immediately affects 
you so, as to alter, to your fancy, the whole 
frame of nature. Fix it well in your mind^ 
that these gloomy imaginations are deceitful. 
The bountiful Creator was not mistaken, when 
pleased with his compleated work, he declared 
that " all was good." The scheme of Pro- 
vidence and nature is infinitely so; and its 
contemplation is an inexhaustible source of 
delight. Life has its gloomy scenes, but to 
the good, they only prove an awful exercise 
of duty supported, all the while, by the assur- 
ance of reward. Life has its cheerful mo- 
ments too, which to the good, no sorrow can 
embitter. Thus whilst the pleasures of re- 



262 Dialogue v. 

ligion, of benevolence, of friendship, of con- 
tent, of gratitude, of every innocent gaiety, of 
free society, of lively mirth, of health, and of all 
those infinite objects of delight, which smiling 
nature offers us; whilst these are real and 
substantial enjoyments, that ill, which we 
might fear, from the deprivation of some of 
them, and even of life itself, is proved to be 
a mere imaginary terror. This, we have 
numberless opportunities of knowing. But, 
blinded by passion, or weakened by consti- 
tution, we perpetually run into the common 
mistake. We form, to ourselves, such a false 
idea of human happiness, that when we might 
behold, and be favoured by the goddess her- 
self, we fly from her in a fright because she 
is not adorned just with those trappings, in 
which our fancy had drest her out. Restless, 
we still shift from place to place, to find what 
we do not know, when we see it: and restless, 
we shall ever be, if for a fit of the spleen, or 
an unanswered wish, we imagine, that a just 
degree of happiness is not within every body's 
reach. My dear Lisaura, if you have any 
sense of gratitude to that Providence, which 
formed you for happiness, avoid this gloomy 
error. Let refined reason fix your judgment, 
and then, let common sense direct your prac- 
tice. 



OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 



Talking over idle vexations, only makes 
them worse. 

Every day should be single, unconnected 
with the rest, and so bear only the weight of 
its own vexations *. 

Never make a group of them, nor look 
backwards or forwards on a series of dis- 
agreeable days; but be always content to 
make the best of the present. 

Every day try to do what you can, and try 
in earnest, and with spirit. Scorn to be dis- 
couraged ; and if one scheme fails, form ano- 
ther, as fast as a spider does webs. But 
never be anxious or uneasy : and if the day 
be very unpropitious, and nothing will do, 
even be contented, and easy, and cheerful, as 
having done the best you could. For, per- 
petually trying and aiming to do proper things, 
keeps up the spirit of action which is the im- 

■* Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. 

Matt, vi, 34. 



264 Occasional Thoughts. 

portant point, and preserves you from the 
danger of falling into heartless indolence, to 
the full as well as if you really did them : and 
as for the particular things themselves, it is 
not a pin matter. But always carry an easy 
smiling look, and take nothing to heart. 

There is scarcely any thing which a sincere 
endeavour, directed by the hearty conviction 
of real duty, will not in time accomplish : 
since an endeavour so directed, will be accom- 
panied by persevering, humble prayer, and to 
persevering prayer, joined with sincere endea- 
vours, success is infallibly promised. 

Considering life in its great and important 
view as the probation for a passage to eter- 
nity — and this is the just and true way of 
considering it— of what signification is it, 
whether it be passed in town or country : in 
hurry or in retirement: in pomp or gaiety, 
or in quiet obscurity? Of none: any further 
than as these different situations hurt or im- 
prove the mind : and in either of them a right 
mind may preserve, or even improve itself, 

What is then of consequence ? Why, that 
wherever, or however life is past, it should 
be reasonably and happily : now to this no- 
thing is necessary but a true practical sense 



Occasional Thoughts. 265 

of religion, an easy good humour, cheerful in- 
difference to trifles of all kinds, whether 
agreeable or vexatious : and keeping one's self 
above them all, suitably to the true dignity of 
an immortal nature. 

Now in a quiet private life one certainly 
may be reasonable, religious, friendly, good- 
humoured, and consequently happy. 

In great life one may be thus good too, and 
very useful besides, and consequently very 
happy also. But this way of life is more dan- 
gerous, and has too strong a tendency to dis- 
sipate the mind, and deprave the heart. 

Upon the whole, every state of life is equal. 
Providence orders all : and therefore in every 
one, those who cheerfully, and resignedly ac- 
commodate themselves to its orders, may, and 
must be happy. Why then this vain care 
and anxiety, about what it does not belong 
to us to look forward to ? The good and evil, 
and the right improvement of the present day, 
is what it is our business to attend to. If we 
make the best of that, we are sure all will, 
and must go well. If we put ourselves by 
vain distrust and useless foresight, out of a 
right temper to-day, every to-morrow will be 
the worse for it 



266 Occasional Thoughts. 

We had need often perpetually to be re- 
collecting what are our duties, and our dan- 
gers, that we may fulfil the one, and avoid 
the other: but never with anxious or uneasy 
forecast. We must consider the difficulties 
of the state of life we are likely to be in, not 
because every other state of life has not as 
many, for all are pretty equal, but because 
those peculiarly belong to us. 

Dwelling much in our thoughts on other 
people's unreasonableness, is a sort of revenge, 
that like all other revenge, hurts ourselves more 
than them. However, to talk over things some- 
times a little reasonably, and see how the 
truth stands, is a very allowable indulgence: 
but it must not be allowed too often. 

Trying to convince people in cases where 
they are prejudiced, though ever so unrea- 
sonably, be it by temper, humour or custom, 
is a vain and an idle attempt. One should 
be satisfied if one can, quietly and unper- 
ceived, over-rule those prejudices, where it is 
necessary in practice; and not aim at the 
poor triumph of showing them, that they are 
in the wrong, which hurts, or puts them out 
of humour. 

It is mere cheating one's self to take things 



Occasional Thoughts. 267 

easily and patiently at the time, and then 
repine and complain in looking back upon 
them. This is to enjoy all the pride and self- 
applause of patience, and all the indulgence 
of impatience. 



PROSE PASTORALS. 



/ 



PASTORAL I. 



Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of a 
Shepherd's Life. 

The sun was hid by wintry clouds: the 
wind blew sharp and cold: the flocks were 
browzing on the heath, when Colin and 
Thyrsis, two young Shepherds, who kept them, 
sat down upon a bank beneath the shelter of a 
holly bush, and fell into much discourse. 
Methinks, said Thyrsis, it is but a sad life, 
that we poor wretches lead, exposed at all 
times to the severities of the weather : in 
Summer parched with heat, and pinched by 
frosts in Winter. While other young people 
are diverting themselves in the villages, we 
roam about solitary here, on the wild common, 
and have nothing to attend to, but our strag- 
gling sheep. 

And yet, answered Colin, as hard as our 
life is, you see how old Alcmon loves it ; who 
has fed his own flocks for fifty years, and 
maintains that he is happier than a king. 

I am, replied Thyrsis, but newly come into 
5 



272 Pastoral i. 

this country, and have little knowledge of 
the neighbouring Shepherds : but I should be 
glad to see one, who could convince me I was 
happy. 

See then, said Colin, where Alcmon comes 
hither most opportunely. And thereupon call- 
ing to the good old man, father, cried he, 
here is a young Shepherd, who wants your 
instructions how to live contented. 

Son, said the old man, sitting down by 
them, I accept of that name, and of the office 
you have given me : for I wish well to all 
young people : and as I am happy myself, I 
would fain have others so. 

A hard task you will have father, inter- 
rupted Thyrsis, to make people happy, who 
have no one enjoyment of diversion in life ; 
but must slave out our day in the service of 
their masters, who divert themselves the while, 
and live at ease. 

Good Thyrsis, said Colin, listen but to 
Alcmon, and you will be convinced, as I have 
been. 

Nay rather, said Alcmon, let him make his 
complaint to me: do you answer him from 
your own experience, and which ever of you 
best defends his own cause, shall come and 
sup with me at night. There we will enjoy 



Pastoral /♦ 273 

ourselves in honest mirth by a warm fire, and 
forget all the toils of the day. Thyrsis agreed 
to the proposal and began. 

Thyrsis. Alas how gloomy are the skies ! 
How hollow is the whistling of the wind in 
December ! Are these the scenes to entertain 
a youthful fancy ? The trees are stript of all 
their leaves : the very grass is of a russet 
brown. The birds sit silent and shivering on 
the branches. All things have an air of po- 
verty and desolation. Alas how tasteless is the 
shepherd's life ! His meals are short, and his 
sleep soon interrupted. He rises many hours 
before the cheerful day begins to dawn ; and 
does not return home, till the cold night is far 
advanced. 

Colin. But then how delightful is the early 
spring ! How reviving the advances of sum- 
mer ! The sky grows clear, or is only over- 
spread with thin, white, curdling clouds. Soft 
showers descend upon the withered grass, and 
every meadow seems to laugh. The gay 
flowers spring up in every field, and adorn 
it with beautiful colours. The lambkins frisk 
around us, and divert us with their innocent 
gaieties. The shepherd's life is as innocent as 
theirs. If his meals are plain, they are hearty: 
if his sleep is short, it is both scu id and 



274 Pastoral i. 

sweet. He rises refreshed in the morning, 
and sees the day come on by gradual advances, 
till the whole east is streaked with purple 
clouds. \^hen night succeeds, he beholds 
the immense vault of heaven : he admires the 
lustre of the stars, and in vain tries to reckon 
their number. While they glitter over his 
head, he has no cause to fear any ill influences 
from them, since his whole life is harmless 
and industrious, and renders him the care of 
Providence. 

Thyrsis. O with what envy do we see the 
young hunters hastening by us in pursuit of 
their youthful prey! While we are confined, 
as it were, to one spot, they measure with 
swift steps the whole fair country round ; and 
the speed of the horses seems equal to that of 
the winds. The hills echo to the enlivening 
sound of their horns, and the cheerful cry of 
their dogs. The timorous hares scud away 
before them : they feel not the coldness of the 
air : and when they return home, they have 
all things in plenty. We have the same 
dispositions, for mirth and entertainment, 
with them — Why, why should there be this 
difference between one man's station and 
another's ? 

Colin. Why rather, O Thyrsis, O misjudg 



Pastoral i. 275 

ing Thyrsis, do you envy them a pleasure, 
they so dearly buy ? Not long ago, I was 
tending my flock, upon the brow of the hill, 
These hunters passed by me in great mirth, 
and high gaiety. Amongst them was a very 
handsome youth, the only son of a fond 
mother. He guided an unmanageable horse, 
and guided it without discretion. Just upon 
the edge of a precipice, the unruly creature 
took fright. — I saw the youth brought back, 
lifeless, pale, and disfigured. The great pos- 
sessions to which he was born, were no longer 
of any avail to him : while I, poor humble 
shepherd, salute the rising sun, and enjoy life 
and health. 

Thyrsis. Those accidents, timorous Colin, 
do not happen every day. But at least I may 
envy those idlers, whom I see, in perfect 
safety, diverting themselves upon the common. 
They have no severe master to give an ac~ 
count to, for their time ; they are well clothed 
and better fed. 

Alcmon. O Thyrsis, they have a master, to 
whom they are accountable, superior to those 
sort of masters you mean. A master that 
looks upon us with as favourable an eye at 
be does upon them. A master, to whom the 

t 2 



276 Pastoral I. 

greatest king upon his throne, is but an upper 
servant, and lias a heavier task, because he 
is able to do more than you and I. Those 
idlers, whom you envy, are perhaps not so 
happy, as you fancy them to be. 

Colin. I saw Clorinda cross some meadows, 
the other day, with an air that expressed little 
happiness* There were a large company of 
them together : all people of prosperous for- 
tunes, all idle, and at ease. The young 
nymph went a good way before all her com- 
panions: her garments glittered in the sun, 
with silk and gold. She seemed to shun con- 
versation : her eyes were fixed upon the 
ground : her look was pale and melancholy, 
and, every now and then, she would sigh, as 
if her heart was breaking. 

Thy?*sis. Clorinda's melancholy is easily 
understood. Urania and she were once inse- 
parable companions : that favourite friend of 
her's is lately dead : I heard Dametas tell the 
unhappy story. But Clorinda has a thousand 
consolations. If one of us loses his friend or 
brother, he loses his all. We have nothing 
else that fortune can deprive us of. 

jilcmon. Tliyrsis, 1 like your ingenuity : 
you show some skill in defending a bad 



Pastoral i. 27f 

cause *. Colin and you shall both come home 
with me. When it is no longer a matter of 
dispute, I hope you will come over to the hap- 
pier opinion. Believe me, shepherd, we, of 
low condition, are free from a multitude of 
unknown evils, that afflict the rich and great, 
and are more terrible to them than storms and 
tempests are to us ; more grievous than labour, 
and honest and industrious poverty. 

* Perhaps it may even be thought more skill than his 
opponent. The defence in this dialogue seems unusually 
feeble, and the writer's arguments much less conclusive 
than they generally are. It is to be hoped that much more 
might have been said on that side of the question. 



PASTORAL IL 



On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty, 

Phillis and Damaris were two country 
lasses, the pride of the village where they 
lived : both handsome to perfection, but ex- 
ceedingly different. The unaffected Damaris 
had no attention but to assist the infirmities of 
an aged parent, whom severe illness confined 
to his cottage, while she tended his flock, by 
the wood-side. Her hands were generally em- 
ployed in some useful work: and wdiile she 
knit, or spun to procure her old father a more 
tolerable subsistence, the cheerfulness of her 
songs exprest a contented heart. Her dress, 
though very poor, was always neat and clean : 
she studied no ornament in it, and if the 
neighbours commended her person, she lent 
them very little attention. 

Phillis had been bred up under a careless 
mother. She was exceedingly pretty, and 
knew it mighty well. On holidays nobody so 
spruce as she. Her hat was wreathed with 
flowers or ribbands: every fountain was con- 



Pastoral it. 279 

suited for her dress, and every meadow ran- 
sacked to adorn it. From morning till night 
she was dancing, and sporting on the green : 
all the shepherds courted and admired her, 
and she believed every word they said. Yet 
she felt many a discontent. Sometimes her 
garland would be less becoming than she 
w 7 ished it : sometimes she would faacy that a 
favourite shepherd slighted her : or that a 
newer face was more admired than her's. 
Every day was spent in the pursuit of gaiety : 
and every day brought with it some disquiet* 
She was one morning sitting very pensive 
under a poplar, tying up a nosegay, when she 
heard Damaris, who was concealed from her, 
only by the shade of some bushes, singing, 
with a merry heart, a song in praise of indus- 
try. Phillis could not help interrupting her in 
the midst of it : and when she went towards 
her, found her busy in plying the distaff, which 
was fixed in her side : when thus the gay maid 
began. 

Phillis. How is it possible, Damaris, that 
you should be always so merry in leading a 
life of such drudgery ? What charms can you 
find in it ? How much much better would it 
become your years to be dancing at the may- 
pole, where some rich farmer's son might pro- 
bably fall in love with you ? 



280 Pastoral u. 

Damans. Ah Phillis, I prefer this way of 
life, because I see you very unhappy in your's. 
For my own part, I have never a moment's 
uneasiness. I am sensible, I am doing what 
I ought. I sec myself the comfort of a good 
old father, who supported my helpless infancy, 
and now wants this return of duty in his de- 
crepid age. When I have pinned the fold at 
night, I return home, and cheer him with my 
sight. I dress his little supper, and partake 
it with more pleasure, than you have at a 
feast. He in the mean time tells me stories 
of his younger days, and instructs me by his 
experience. Sometimes he teaches me a song 
like that I was singing just now: and on holi- 
days, I read to him out of some good book. 
This, Phillis, is my life. I have no great ex- 
pectations, but every cheerful hope, that can 
make the heart light and easy. 

Phillis. Well Da maris : I shall not dispute 
your taste. My father is well enough, by his 
own labour, to provide for his family : and 
my mother never set us the example of work- 
ing. 5 Tis true we are poor : but who knows 
what good fortune may throw in our way ? 
Youth is the time for mirth and pleasure : a ad 
I do not care how hardly I fare, provided I 
can get a silken lining to my hat, and be the 
Lady of the May next year. 



Pastoral u. 28 1 

Damans. O Phillis, this is very pretty for 
the present : but in what will it end ? Do you 
think that smoothness of face will always last? 
Yon decrepid old woman, that iimps upon 
her crutches, was once, they say, as handsome 
as you. Her youth passed without engaging 
any body in a real affection to her : yet her 
good name was lost, among the follies she en- 
gaged in. Poverty and age came on together ; 
she has long been a burden to the village and 
herself. If any neighbours cow is ill, all sus- 
picions of witchcraft fail upon her. She can 
do nothing to maintain herself: and every 
body grudges her what she has. 

Phillis. Ill-natured Da maris, to compare 
me with a hag, that all the country abhors. I 
wish you would come to the pastimes : they 
w r ould put you in a better humour. Besides 
you would there hear what the shepherds say 
to this Phillis, whom you are pleased to de- 
spise so. 

Danuwis. I do not despise you Phillis : 
but I wish you well, and would fain see you 
as happy as myself. That fine green stuff, 
your gown is made of, would become you 
much better if it was of your own spinning. — 
But I talk like an old man's daughter, and 
am little heeded. Go pretty butterfly, and re- 



282 Pastoral ft. 

joice in the Summer of thy days : let me, like 
the homely but industrious ant, lay up some 
provision for the Winter *. 

* The writer may be judged from this interesting dia* 
]ogue to have understood the comforts arising from the 
performance of duty in her own sex, better than she di$ 
those of the other. 



PASTORAL III, 



The Happiness of a religious Hope. 

Imagine, honest friends, that instead of a 
little book, I am a good humoured neighbour, 
come to spend an hour with you in cheerful 
chat. Do not look upon me as one that is 
come to read you grave lectures of religion and 
good behaviour : but give me the welcome of 
an agreeable companion. Is it in a summer's 
holiday, you take me up ? Come, let us go 
out into the fields, sit down under some shady 
tree, and while the sun shines, and the birds 
sing round us, let us talk over all we have to 
say. Or is it a winter's evening r Draw your 
seats about the chimney; throw on another 
faggot, make a cheerful blaze, and let us be 
comfortable. What is it, to us here, if the 
wind blows and the rain beats abroad ? Since 
we cannot work, let us divert ourselves, but 
let us divert ourselves in a harmless reasonable 
way, that we may turn this idle time to as 
good account as the busiest. 



284 Pastoral in. 

Come : what shall we talk of ? Of hap- 
piness? there cannot be a pleasanter subject. 
Where is it to be had, this happiness, and 
how shall we come by it ? 

Where is it to be had ? Why, every where, 
so we can but command our thoughts, and do 
our duty : serve God cheerfully, and make 
the best of our lot. 

It may be, good neighbour, you are old, 
lame, sickly, have a large family, and little 
to maintain them. Alas, poor neighbour ! 
yet still it is ten to one you may be happier 
than many a nobleman, and many a prince, 
I suppose you honest and religious. Why 
then the better half is secure : your mind is 
easy. You have no load upon your consci- 
ence, and no need to be afraid even of death. 
But cannot your condition be, any way, 
mended ? Content is a good thing : yet suc- 
cess in honest endeavours is a better. There 
is no need of sitting sadly down and acqui- 
escing in a miserable lot, till, upon mature 
consideration, we find it to be really the will 
of Providence that we should : and then, let 
me tell you, dear friend, God's will is kinder 
to us than our own wishes. When we submit 
patiently to sorrows and hardships, not out of 
laziness, nor out of despair, nor out of thought- 



Pastoral in. 285 

less helplessness, we then trust our souls to 
him, in well doing. We act a commendable 
part, which our great Master will approve: 
and we may have a cheerful confidence in his 
mercy, that all tilings shall work together for 
our good. Come : pluck up your spirits my 
friend, and let us see whether the part that 
falls to you is to mend your condition or to 
bear it. 

First you are old. — Well, that is a fault 
that time will not mend indeed — but eternity 
will mend it, honest friend. The period will 
come when your youth shall be renewed: when 
you shall be young, and lusty as an eagle, 
and these grey hairs and wrinkles shall be 
succeeded by immortal bloom. In the mean 
time, so much of your life is well over: you 
are got so far on your journey, through this 
vale of tears. You can reflect with pleasure 
on a great many good actions, and pious dis- 
positions: and it peculiarly becomes old age 
to meditate much upon those subjects, which 
are of all others the most noble and delightful. 
Heaven is the object that should be always 
in their view. What a prospect is that ! 
What, think you, should be the joy of a sea- 
faring man, when, after a long, stormy voy- 
age, he is come within sight of the port? 



286 Pastoral m. 

Suppose a young man had an estate left to 
him* which he had never seen. Suppose he 
had been travelling a thousand miles to come 
to it : that he had met with perpetual bad 
weather, by the way, and dirty roads: that he 
was faint, and well nigh wearied out: and 
that just when he comes to the brow of a dry, 
sandy hill, bleak and unpleasant in itself, but 
from whence the prospect first opened 
upon him, of that fair place, he is going to 
enjoy. Suppose he sees the tufted woods 
crowned with the brightest verdure : suppose 
he sees, among them, glittering spires, and 
domes, and gilded columns : and knows that 
all these shall be his own. With what plea- 
sure will he survey the gentle winding rivulets 
gliding through fertile meadows: the borders 
gay with flowers of every kind : the parks and 
forests filled with all sorts of excellent fruits: 
the castles, and pleasure-houses, which he 
knows to be rich with magnificent furniture : 
and what is above all, where he knows that 
his best and most beloved friends, and a de- 
lightful society, whom he longs to be amongst, 
are waiting with kind impatience to receive 
him : think you, that he will have leisure to 
attend to the little inconveniences of the pre- 
sent moment ? Will not his thoughts fly for* 

1 



Pastoral in. 287 

ward, faster than his legs can carry him, to 
this blessed inheritance? Yet how poor are 
such riches and pleasures, compared with the 
certain expectations of the poorest old man, 
that is pious and virtuous.* 

* Surely that critick must be very fastidious, who, 
after reading this excellent and useful monologue, should 
make no other observation upon it, but that the reasoning 
in it will apply equally well to every other situation of 
life, as to that in which the scene is laid. 



A FAIRY TALE* 



Education. 

A number of boys were diverting them- 
selves one fine day in a meadow, when a 
wrinkled old woman came up to them, and 
stopt their play. Her looks were unpleasing 
and her interruption unseasonable. One of 
the biggest, who had been taught by his tu- 
tor to respect her, addrest her very civilly; 
but of the little urchins some ran away 
frighted, and hid themselves : and others very 
insolently laughed at her, and called her old 
witch. Little George, the youngest of them 
all, a very pretty, good-humoured lad, held by 
the hand of the eldest, (who, he thought, as 
he had always been his friend, would protect 
him) and listened : but a liltle afraid too, and 
not much liking either her looks, or the being 
hindered of his play : however, he was too 
well bred to say any thing rude. She smiled, 
and taking his other hand, do not be afraid 
of me, my dear child, said she, for though 
those idle boys yonder call me Crossness, and 

9 



A Fairy Tale. 28§ 

Severity, my true name is Instruction. I love 
every one of you: and you, my little dear, in 
particular; and my whole business is to do 
you good. Come with me to my castle, and 
I will make you as happy as the day is long. 

Little George did not know how to trust 
her, but as he saw his friend Henry disposed 
to follow the old lady, he even ventured along 
with them. 

The castle was an old melancholy looking 
building, and the path to it very much entan- 
gled with briars and thistles : but the old 
woman encouraged them in a cheerful tone 
to come along: and taking out a large key, 
which had several strange words engraved 
upon it, she put it into the door, which im- 
mediately flew open, and they entered a spa- 
cious hall magnificently furnished. Through 
this they passed into several apartments, each 
finer and pleasanter than the other : but to 
every one they ascended by steep steps, and 
on every step, strange and unknown words 
were engraved. 

Perhaps you would be glad to know some 
more particulars of these apartments: and in- 
deed I should have told you, that as soon as 
they entered the great hall, she made them sit 
down to a pretty collation of plumb-cakes. 



290 A Fairy Tale. 

biscuits, and sweet-meats, which were 
brought in baskets covered with flowers, by 
four smiling, rosy cheeked girls, called Inno- 
cence, Health, Mirth, and Good-Humour. 
When they were sufficiently refreshed, the old 
lady returned to them, in a finer dress, and 
with a much more pleasing look. She had 
now a wand in her hand, of ivory, tipped with 
gold, and with this she pointed out to them 
the ornaments of the room. It was supported 
by strong, but handsome pillars of adamant : 
and between the pillars, hung festoons of fruit 
and flowers. At the upper end, were niches, 
with very beautiful statues in them. The 
principal one was Truth. It appeared to be 
of one entire diamond, and represented the 
-most beauiful woman, that ever eyes beheld. 
Her air was full of dignity and sweetness: in 
one hand she held a sceptre, in the other a 
book, and she had an imperial crown on her 
head. The old fairy gently touched this 
figure with her wand, and immediately it 
stepped down from the pedestal, and began to 
speak. No music was ever so pleasing as 
the voice of Truth. She addrest herself to our 
little hero, and examined him in his Catechism. 
As he had formerly been a little idle, he could 
not say it so well, as at that minute he wished 



A Fairy Tale. 291 

to do. — Little wretch said the old fairy 
frowning, why do you answer so stupidly? 
Have you never been taught? Here was a 
loop-hole through which a boy of a cowardly 
spirit, might have crept out, by pretending, 
that his tutor had been in fault, and not him- 
self. But little George scorned to tell a lye : 
nor could he be so base as to excuse himself, 
by accusing an innocent person. Therefore, 
though trembling for fear of the old fairy, 
and her wand, he answered, Indeed, madam, 
I have been often bid to learn it, but I loved 
my diversions so well, that I never could 

apply to it -Here the old fairy, smiling, 

kissed him, and said, my dear child, I forgive 
your past idleness, in favour of your noble 
honesty. A fault honestly owned, is half 
amended, and this nymph shall reward you. 

Immediately Truth gave him a little Cate- 
chism bound in silver enamelled, a pocket 
Bible with ruby clasps, and a small looking- 
glass in a gold case. In these books, my 
dear, said she, you shall find constant direc- 
tions from me 5 which, if you follow, will make 
you good, and great, and happy. If you 
never offend against me, I will be ready to 
assist you in all difficulties. If ever you 
should be tempted to offend me, look in this 

u2 



292 A Fairy Tale. 

glass. If you see yourself in it your own 

natural figure, go on contentedly, and be sure 

you are under my protection. But if you see 

yourself in the form of a slave, and a monster, 

greasy, ragged, loaded with chains: a double 

tongue hanging out of your mouth, and a pair 

of ass's ears on your head, tremble to think, 

that you are got into the power of the wicked 

enchanter Falsehood. Retract the lye you 

have told : stand still wherever you are : call 

out aloud for my assistance : and do not stir 

from the spot you are in, till I come to help 

you. So saying, the bright form re-ascended 

her pedestal : and four others, who stood on 

each hand, being touched by the fairy w r and, 

moved towards him. 

The first was a young woman clothed in a 
long white robe, perfectly neat and plain. 
She had fine flaxen hair, and blue eyes, w r hich 
were fixed on the ground. A white veil 
shaded her face : and her colour went and 
came every minute. She advanced with a 
slow pace, and spoke in a voice very low, but 
as sweet as the nightingale's. 

My name, said she, is Modesty. I have 
no merit, but perhaps as you are so young, it 
may be in my power to be of some little use 
to you* Before you get to the top of this 



A Fairy Tale. 293 

castle, you will see many strange things, and 
be bid to do many things, of which you do 
not understand the reason. But remember, 
that you are very young, and know nothing; 
and that every body here is wiser than you. 
Therefore observe attentively all that you see; 
and do readily all that you are bid. As you 
have recommended yourself to Truth, we her 
handmaids are ready to give you all the assist- 
ance we can ; and you will need it all • 

Above all things fear Disgrace. It is 3 
filthy puddle in the neighbourhood of this 
castle, whose stains are not easily wiped off. 
Those, who run heedlessly, or wilfully into 
it, after repeated warnings, grow in time so 
loathsome, that no body can endure them. 

There is an enchantress, you will meet 
with, called Flattery, who will offer you a 
very pleasant cup. If you drink much of 
it your head will turn : and while you fancy 
yourself a most accomplished person, she will 
touch you with her wicked wand, and imme- 
diately you will be metamorphosed into a 
butterfly, a squib, or a paper-kite. But as, 
perhaps, you must taste her cup, take this 
nosegay of violets : and as you find your head 
a little giddy smell to it, and you will be so 
refreshed, that she will have no power to hurt 



294 A Fairy Tale. 

you. This little nosegay will defend you also 
against the magician Pride, who in a thou- 
sand shapes will try to introduce himself to 
you, and persuade you to go with him to a high 
rock, from whence, he will either throw you 
down some frightful precipices, into the pool 
of Disgrace, or else change you into a lion, 
or a tyger, or a bear, or into such a huge 
dropsical figure, that every body shall hate to 
look upon you : and that you shall not be able 
to pass through the gates that lead to Hapjii- 
ness. When you suspect his coming smell to 
your violets, and you will immediately see 
through his disguise, and at the same time, they 
shall make you so little, he shall not see you: 
and when you are in a crowd, smell to them 
again, and you shall pass through it without 
difficulty. I wish I had a better gift to be- 
stow ; but accept of my all. 

Little George thanked her kindly, and 
stuck the nosegay in his bosom. 

On the pedestal of the next figure, was in- 
scribed Natural Affection. Her countenance 
was sweet and engaging : her garment em- 
broidered with storks, doves, and various 
pretty animals. She had bracelets on her 
arms, and fine rings on every finger: every 
one was the gift of some beloved friend or re- 
5 



A Fairy Tate. 295 

lation. My dear George, said she, I love you 
for the sake of your parents. I have a thou- 
sand pretty gifts to bestow, and this particu- 
larly will be of use to you. She then gave him 
a small enamelled box, with pictures on every 
side. When, said she, you are in doubt how 
to behave, look upon the pictures. They are 
those of your parents, relations, and friends : 
being gifted by a fairy, you will see every 
figure in motion : and as your papa and 
mamma, your brothers and sisters seem 
affected by your behaviour, you will judge 
whether you are acting right or wrong. I 
am sure it is your desire always to give them 
pleasure, and not pain, to be an honour to 
them, and not a reproach. 

The next image that spoke was entirely 
made of sugar, but a sugar as firm, and almost 
as clear as chrystal. Her name was Good 
Temper. In her bosom, she had a nosegay 
of roses without thorns. She took our little 
friend by the hand, and seeing it scratched 
from a scufHe he had with his companions, 
she healed it with a touch; and gave him a 
small amethyst phial filled with honey and 
oil of a peculiar kind. Touch your lips with 
this julep, said she, every morning. Though 
the phial is small, it is inexhaustible, and you 



296 A Fairy Tale. 

will never more be liable to harm, from any 
idle quarrel; as you will never say any thing 
peevish, or provoking, all your companions 
will love you : and your servants will think it 
a blessing to live with you. 

One figure more remained, and the fairy 
had no sooner touched it, but down from her 
pedestal jumped sprightly Diligence. She 
was drest like a huntress. Activity and 
nimbleness appeared in every limb. She 
sprung to George, clapped her hands on his 
shoulders, and immediately there appeared a 
couple of little wings. These wings, said 
she, will be of great use to you in ascending 
the steep steps you will have to go up, by and 
bye. But all wings need frequent pluming: 
and these will lose all their virtue, if you do 
not keep them in order every day, by using 
the talisman, I am going next to give you. 
This talisman was a golden spur. This, said 
she, whenever your wings are drooping, (as 
they will very often, when the old witch La- 
ziness approaches, who would metamorphose 
you into a dormouse) you must run gently 
into your aide, and they will be ready imme- 
diately to carry you out of her reach. I am 
sure, you have too much true courage to fear 
a little trifling pain, when it will be the means 



A Fairy Tale. 297 

of gaining you every improvement. Good 
night, good night, my love. I see you are 
sleepy, but as soon as you wake in the morn- 
ing, be sure to make use of your spur. 

The good old fairy then led Henry and 
George into a little neat room, where they 
went to bed and slept to day-break, dreaming 
of all the agreeable things they had seen and 
heard. George did not wake, till Henry was 
already up and drest: but he waked disturbed, 
and began to tell his friend his dreams. I 
thought, said he, that looking out of the win- 
dow, I saw all my companions at play, and 
flew out to them directly, to show them those 
fine things, that the statues had given me. 
Instead of admiring me, they fell upon me : 
one seized one fine thing, and another, ano- 
ther ; till poor I had nothing left but my wings. 
What vexed me too, in the scuffle my violets 
were scattered, the books torn, the pictures 
spoilt, the glass broke, and the julep spilt. 
So that they were never the better, though 
I was so much the worse. Well, I took to 
my wings however, and thought I might as 
easily fly in, as out, and then the good Fairy 
would give me more pretty things. But no 
such matter: the windows were shut, the 



298 A Fairy Tale. 

doors were barred and bolted. Owls and 
bats flew about my head : geese hissed at me, 
asses brayed at me, monkies chattered in my 
ears, and I fell down nobody knows whither. 
Be thankful, said Henry, that it was only a 
dream ; here are all your pretty things safe ; 
and so saying he gently touched his side, like 
a true friend, with the spur, and up jumped 
little George all alive and merry. He read 
in his books : He with pleasure saw his own 
honest face in the Glass of Truth : He obser- 
ved with delight, the pictures of his friends 
and relations all smiling upon him. While he 
was thus employed, in stept a sober-looking 
man, leaning on a staff. My young friends 
said he, I am sent to conduct you through 
the noble apartments of this Castle. A fine 
conductor indeed, said little George, who had 
unfortunately forgot both his violets, and his 
phial, your crutch, honest man will keep up 
rarely with my wings. Your wings young- 
ster, replied Application (for that was his 
name) will be of little service, unless I lend 
you a staff to rest upon, which wherever you 
set it down, will make your footing sure. 
This speech was unheeded by little George, 
who already upon the wing, fluttered away. 
Henry soon overtook him, having quite as 



A Fairy Tale. 299 

good pinions, though he did not boast of 
them, but stayed first to bring with him the 
staff, the phial, and the nosegay, against his 
friend should need them. Little George was 
now trying to mount up a steep stair-case, 
which he saw multitudes of his own age as- 
cending. Very eagerly he stretched his 
wings, whose painted plumage glittered in 
the sun-beams, and very often just reached the 
top : but he was greatly surprized to find that 
he always slid back again, as if he had stood 
upon a slope of ice, so that hundreds and 
hundreds had got through the folding doors 
above, while he was still but at the bottom. 
He cried for vexation : gave hard names to the 
boys that got before him, and was laughed 
at by them in return. The box of pictures 
gave him no comfort, for there he saw his 
father frowning and his mother looking un- 
happy. At this minute, friendly Henry came 
to his relief, and giving him the violets, the 
phial, and the staff, make use of these, said he, 
and you will easily get up with them, who are 
now before you. Observe, that they have, 
every one of them, just such a staff, and tliat, 
notwithstanding their wings, they can rise but 
one step at a time. George, who had now 
touched his lips with the phial, thanked him 



500 A Fairy Talc. 

very kindly, and they mounted several steps* 
hand in hand. On some were inscribed, Pro- 
pria qnce Maribus : on others As in Prcesenti, 
and various other magic verses, which, they 
just rested long enough on every step to read 
and as they ascended, the steps grew easier 
and easier. George however was a little out 
of breath, and more than once wished himself 
out of the Castle. Yet he was delighted to 
find himself almost overtaking the foremost, 
who had, some of them, loitered by the way. 

And now he entered into an apartment, 
more magnificent than any he had ever seen. 
Thousands of rooms opened, one beyond ano- 
ther, furnished with all the elegance of taste. 
From every one of these were delightful 
prospects: but then, for a long while, he had 
not leisure to attend to the strange varieties 
of rich and uncommon furniture, exciting his 
curiosity every minute. One long gallery 
was hung with paintings, so exquisitely fine, 
that every figure seemed alive : and some of 
them actually spoke, and amused him with a 
thousand agreeable stories. Here he saw all 
the metamorphoses of the Heathen Gods, the 
adventures of iEneas, and a number of other 
things that I have not time describe. A 
young damsel attended him drest in a gown 



A Fairy Tale. 301 

made of feathers, more gay than the rainbow,. 
She had wings upon her head : she gave him 
the most delicious sweet-meats, and he drank 
out of a sparkling cup, the pleasantest liquor 
imaginable. This light dish did not quite 
satisfy a hungry stomach : so that George 
was not very sorry when, past through the 
gallery of Fiction, his fair conductress Poetry 
consigned him over to the care of a good 
hospitable old man, in the next apartment, 
whose table was covered with wholesome and 
substantial food. This apartment, called the 
Saloon of History, was by no means so gay 
as the former: but deserved examination bet- 
ter. The walls were covered with marble, 
adorned with the finest basso relievos, statues 
and bustos, of every celebrated hero and le- 
gislator, struck the observing eye with vene- 
ration. The master of the feast was ex- 
tremely good-natured, and communicative : 
and ready to answer every question, that 
George's curiosity prompted him to ask. He 
commended him for his love of Truth, and 
toasted her health, as his own patroness. 
But, as the old gentleman was, sometimes, a 
little prolix in his stories, our young traveller 
amused himself, every now and then, with 
looking over his treasures. Surveying the 



302 A Fairy Tale. 

box of pictures, he could not help wishing 
for a nearer sight of the friends they repre- 
sented. A window, that stood open just by 
him, and overlooked a delightful play-field, 
reminded him of his wings. But the recol- 
lection of his frightful dream, prevented him 
from attempting an escape. 

At this minute, the Fairy Instruction ap- 
peared, with a smiling look. I know your 
thoughts, my dear, said she, and am willing 
to allow you every reasonable indulgence. 
I have, in my service, a number of little 
winged beings, whose business it is to convey 
my young friends, from time to time, to their 
beloved homes. In order to your returning 
safely, accept this key. You must be sure to 
rub it every morning, that it may not grow 
rusty, else the characters, that are engraved 
upon it, will disappear. If your key is kept 
bright, you need only read the inscription 
aloud, and, without difficulty you will return 
to this very apartment, and be intituled to an 
honourable reception. But if the key should 
grow rusty, beware of a disgraceful fall. Let 
your dream warn you to take care of your 
precious gifts, and to make a due use of them. 

She had scarcely done speaking, before 
there was a general voice of joy heard through 



A Fairy Tale. 303 

the whole apartment ; " the holidays are 
" come, the holidays are come:" and imme- 
diately a number of little cherubims appeared, 
in the air, crowned with garlands, and away 
with them flew little George: but unluckily 
in his haste, left both the staff, and the spur 
behind him. Indeed at this minute they were 
needless. 

His friends were all ready to receive him 
with affectionate joy* They commended his 
improvements, and listened with delight, to 
his account of the surprising things he had 
seen: and rejoiced in the marks of favour he 
had received from excellent and powerful 
Fairies. He played about all day with his 
companions, and every thing was thought of r 
that could best divert him. In the midst of 
these amusements, the poor key was in a few 
days forget: nor did he recollect it, till one 
day he saw Henry sitting under a tree, and 
very diligently brightening up his own. Stu- 
pid boy, said giddy George, what do you sit 
moping there for ? Come and play. So I will 
presently, said Henry: but I must not neglect 
the means of returning honourably to the 
good Fairy. Hang the old Fairy, cried 
George: besides, my key will keep bright 
enough, I warrant it, without all this ado. 



304 A Fairy Tale. 

However, looking at the key, he found it 
brown with rust: and sadly his arm ached 
with the vain endeavour of rubbing it bright ; 
for as he could not succeed in five minutes, 
down he flung it in despair. 

What do you cry for, my pretty master r 
said a man in a fine coat, who was passing by. 
George told him his distress. Be comforted, 
said the man, I will give you a gold key set 
with emeralds, that shall be better by half, 
and fitter for a young gentleman of your rank, 
than that old woman's rusty iron. 

Just then, George, who did not want cle- 
verness, began to suspect something: and 
smelling to his violets, the fine man appeared 
in his true shape, which was, indeed^ no other 
than that of the magician Pride. He was 
immoderately tall and bloated : his eyes were 
fierce and malignant: his cheeks were painted, 
a peacock sat upon his head, a bear and a 
leopard followed him. In one hand he held an 
empty bladder, and in the other a fatal wand. 
His under vest was stained and ragged ; but 
over it he had a pompous herald's coat, with a 
long train supported by an ugly dwarf, and a 
limping idiot, whom he turned back con- 
tinually to insult and abuse. Well was it for 
little George, that his violets had rendered 

8 



A Fairy Tale. 305 

him invisible. He saw the magician go on 
to one of his companions, who being destitute 
of such a defence, immediately became his 
prey. Take this nosegay, my child, said the 
wicked wretch, and presented him with a 
bunch of nettles, finely gilded, but very sting- 
ing. The poor boy had no sooner touched 
them than his countenance exprest pain : he 
quarrelled with every body round him : yet 
the simpleton kept continually smelling to his 
nosegay, and the more he was nettled, the 
more quarrelsome he grew. His size too in- 
creased in proportion : he became swelled and 
bloated. He grew tail, too tall at once, but 
it was only by being raised on an enormous 
pair of stilts, on which he could not walk a 
step, without danger of tumbling down. 

George could not help laughing at his 
ridiculous figure, but would, out of good na- 
ture, have offered him his own bunch to 
smell to, if those unfortunate stilts had not 
raised him quite out of his reach. He there- 
fore was making the best of his way back, 
having first secured his key, when a laughing 
giddy hoyden called out to him, that she had 
found a bird's nest. Away with her he ran 
upon this new pursuit : and from bird's nest 
to bird's nest, and from butterfly to butterfly 

x 



306 A Fairy Tale. 

they scampered over the flowery fields, till 
night drew on. She then persuaded him to 
go with her to her mother's house, which was 
but just by, and rest himself. 

He found there a lady lolling in an easy 
chair, who scarce raised her head to bid him 
welcome. A table however stood by her, ready 
spread with every kind of dainty, where Idle- 
ness, for so was his play-fellow called, invited 
him to sit down : and after supper, he was con- 
ducted into a chamber, set round with shelves of 
play-things, where, in a soft down bed, he slept 
till very late the next day. At last, though 
unwillingly, he got up : but for no better 
purpose than to look over those worthless toys, 
which he half despised all the while. What, 
thought he, is this tinsel, and glass, and wood, 
to compare with the rich treasures of the old 
Fairy's Castle ? Neither the old woman here, 
nor the simpleton her daughter, will answer 
me a question I ask, nor divert me with such 
stories, as the very pictures and statues there 
were full of. Thus thinking, he continued 
nevertheless to divert himself with the play- 
things, and was growing fast back into the 
love of rattles, and bells, when a sudden panic 
seized him on seeing in the corners of every 
shelf, fillagree cages full of dormice. Misera- 

3 



A Fairy Tale. . 307 

ble boy that I am, cried he, this must cer- 
tainly be the den of Laziness ! How shall I 
escape? He tried to stretch his wings: but 
alas, they drooped, and now, for the first 
time, he found, and lamented the want of 
his spur. He ran to the windows : every 
prospect from thence was desolate and bar- 
ren, resembling exactly what he had read 
in his ruby-clasped book, of the field of the 
sluggard. 

In vain did he look for the holidays to 
transport him from this wretched place. The 
last of them was already on the wing, and 
almost out of sight : for it is peculiar to these 
little being9 to approach slowly, but to fly- 
away with amazing swiftness. However, he 
met with assistance, where he least expected 
it. A dismal cloud hung almost over his 
head, which he feared would every minute 
burst in thunder ; when out of it flew a black 
eagle, who seized little George in her talons^ 
and in a moment he found himself at the gates 
of the Castle of Instruction. 

Perhaps you may not think his case now, 
much better than it was before. A little 
dormouse could have lain snug and warm, in 
cotton : whereas poor George was forced to 
stand in the cold, among thorns and briars 

x2 



308 A Fairy Tale, 

vainly endeavouring to read the inscription 
on his key, which was now, alas, grown 
rustier than ever. In the mean time he saw 
most of his companions, his friend Henry one 
of the foremost, fly over his head, while their 
polished keys glittered like diamonds : and 
all of them received into the apartments they 
came out of, with joyful acclamations. The 
boy upon stilts, indeed, did not make so good 
a figure. He reached up to the window, but 
his false key would not open it : and making 
a false step, down he tumbled into the dirty 
pooh 

At this minute, the old Fairy looked out 3 
and calling to George, why do not you, my 
child, said she make use of your wings and 
your key ? I am impatient to have you amongst 
us again, that you may receive finer gifts, 
and see greater wonders, than any you have 
met with yet. 

Here a woman came to him, clothed in 
hare-skins, and shivering with an ague. She 
touched him with a cold finger, that chilled 
his blood: and stammered out these terrifying 
words, £) don't g go int t to the C castle, P 
punishment is r ready for r y you, r run 
away. 

Scorn Punishment, and despise it, said 



A Fairy Tale. 309 

Foolhardtness, a little pert monkey in a scarlet 
coat, and mounted upon a goose. 

Fear Disgrace, said Shame, and with a 
rose-bush, which she carried, brushed the 
monkey into the dirty pool, where he lay 
screaming and chattering, while his goose 
hissed at him. 

Poor George knew not what to do. It once 
came into his head to make a plausible excuse, 
and say his key was very bright, but the lock 
was out of order. But bethinking himself to 
apply to his glass, he no sooner saw the ass's 
ears, than, in honest distress, he called out, O 
Truth, Truth, come to my assistance. I have 
been very idle, and I am very sorry, Truth, 
Truth, come to my assistance. 

He fainted away with terror, as he spoke, 
but, when he recovered, found himself within 
the Castle, the bright figure of Truth smiling 
upon him : and Forgiveness, another very 
amiable form, distinguished by a slate, and a 
spunge, with which she wiped out all faults, 
caressing him. Indeed she had need, for he 
felt himself a little stiff, and sore, with some 
rough methods, that had been used to bring 
him to himself. These two nymphs consigned 
him to the care of Amendment, who promised 
never to forsake him, till he got to the top of 
4 



310 A Fairy Tale. 

the Castle : and, under her guidance, he went 
no very cheerfully. 

Indeed he was a little vexed at the first 
steps he came to, on finding himself struck 
pretty hard by an angry looking man ; but 
when he found, that it was only in order to 
return him his staff, and his spur, he thank- 
ed him for his friendly blow, and from that 
time proceeded with double alacrity. He 
soon overtook his companions again, and you 
may imagine, how joyful was the meeting, 
between him and Henry, who loved him too 
well, not to go on very melancholy, while 
George had staid behind. How I rejoiced, 
said he, to see you under the conduct of the 
lady Amendment : now nothing can ever part 
us more. 

The Poetical Gallery, the Saloon of His- 
tory, afforded them new delight. In every 
room, through which they past, were tables 
covered with gems, medals, little images, seals, 
intaglios, $nd all kinds of curiosities, of 
which, they were assured, that the more they 
took, the more welcome they should be. 

Bat here George was a little perplexed 
again. His pockets were filled over and over : 
still, as he came to new treasures, he was 
forced to throw aside the old ones, to make 



A Fairy Tale. Sfl 

room: yet was told, that it would not be 
taken well, if he did not keep them all. At 
last he came fortunately into a room of po- 
lished steel, where, on a throne of jasper, sat 
a lady, with a crown upon her head, of the 
brightest jewels. Upon her robe was woven, 
in the liveliest colours and perfectly distinct 
though in minature, every thing that the 
world contains. She had steel tablets in her 
hand, on which she was always engraving 
something excellent : and on the rich diadem, 
that encircled her forehead, was embroidered 
the word Memory. 

You could not, said she to George, have 
applied to a properer person than to me, to 
help you out of your present difficulty. She 
then gave him a cabinet, so small, and so 
light, that he could carry it without the least 
inconvenience: and, at the same time, so rich 
and elegant, that no snuff-box, set with dia- 
monds, was ever more ornamented. It had 
millions of little drawers, all classed and num- 
bered : and in these, he found all the fine 
things he had been so incumbered with, ranged 
in their proper order. 

The only thing I insist on, said she, is that 
you will keep your drawers exactly clean, and 
never litter them with trash. If you stuff them 



312 A Fairy Tale. 

with what does not deserve a place, they will no 
longer be capable of containing real treasures: 
but the bottom of the cabinet will become di- 
rectly like a sieve : and if Malice or Resentment 
ever persuade you, to put in any thing out of 
their shops, you will soon find every drawer 
infested with snakes and adders, But, above 
all things, value the gifts of Truth, Graiitude > 
and Friendship, which will fill them with 
constant perfume, that shall make you agree- 
able to every body. 

Thus furnished, George proceeded joyfully, 
and ascended from one apartment to another, 
till he become possest of all the treasures of 
the Castle. Sometimes Imagination led him 
into delightful gardens, gay with perpetual 
spring. Sometimes from entrances dug into 
the solid rock, (on the side of the apartments 
opposite to the windows^ he wandered through 
the mines of Science, and brought from thence, 
riches that had not yet been discovered. The 
holidays always found him cheerfully glad to 
go with them : but not impatient for their 
approach, and equally glad to return, when 
they flew back. Whenever he returned, he 
was received with honour, and crowned with 
wreaths of bays and laurel. He became a. 
favourite with the Virtues, and the Graces, 



A Fairy Tale. 313 

and at last was led by them to the top of the 
Castle : where Reputation and Prudence wait- 
ed to receive him, and conduct him through 
a fair plain, that was stretched out along the 
top of the mountain, and terminated by the 
glittering temple of Felicity *. 

* This Fairy Tale, or perhaps more properly, Allegory* 
which was the delight as well as the instruction of the 
Editor's youth, would not disgrace even the modern highly 
improved assistances to education. 



IMITATIONS OF OSS IAN 



IMITATION I. 



Why dost thou not visit my hall, Daughter 
of the gentle Smile? thou art in thy hall of 
joy, the feast of shells is spread : the bars are 
assembled around. Sad I sit alone, and listen 
to the beating rain. The gale sounds hollow 
in the east, but no music comes on the blast, 
to my solitary ear. The red coals glow 
sullenly in my grate, but they should blaze 
cheerfully for thee. Why dost thou not visit 
my hall, Daughter of the gentle Smile ? 

Thy fame shall be heard in the song, for the 
bards assemble at thy call. When I go to 
the narrow house, silence shall rest upon my 
memory. For lonely I sit all the day, and 
listen to the dashing rain. The keen wind 
whistles at my gate, and drives away the 
timid guest. Dark boats pass by on the swift 
stream, but no passenger lands at my hall. 
Thou too, O sweet Daughter of the Smile, 
didst sail by over the blue wave, when the 



318 Imitation i. 

voice * of joy was in the hall of kings. But 
Therina past the day silent and solitary. 
When a thousand oaks flamed beyond the 
stream, she saw the distant blaze, like the red 
streaks of the setting sun. She heard the 
murmur of the distant shouts; and at last 
through the dark air, she saw the approaching 
torch, that lighted back her friends, from the 
feast of empty shells. She ran to meet them 
through the lonely hall ; and the wind lifted 
her cloak. 

Will no voice reply to my song? I too have 
a harp, which the winds sweep with its wings. 

* The Coronation in 1760. Miss Talbot then was in 
the 40th year of her age when she wrote this Imitation. 
Only specimens of the Poems of Ossian had then been 
published. Fingal was not printed till 1762, and Temora 
not till the following year. 



IMITATION II. 



THERINA AND CARTHONA. 

Theruia. 

Daughter of the song, why is thy look so 
pensive ? Why dost thou regard me with an 
eye of compassion ? 

Carthona. Thy melancholy strain pierced 
my heart. I view thee already as in the 
narrow house, where all is silence and dark- 
ness. I look upon thee as a diamond buried 
deep in the rock, when it ought to be flaming 
on an imperial diadem. 

Therina. Partial is thine eye, kind Daughter 
of Harmony, and idly fictitious was my plain- 
tive strain. My expectations look beyond the 
narrow house, and the view terminates in 
splendour. Yet I am not a diamond, O 
Carthona, but a feeble glow-worm of the 
earth, whose sickly lustre would go out in 
open day, and is beheld to advantage, only 
from being judiciously placed amidst obscu- 
rity'. 



320 Imitation n. 

Carthona. Lowly Daughter of Indolence, 
thou dost not well to acquiesce in tire meanest 
and most useless form of being, who mightest 
warble on a bough with the songstresses of 
the grove, or shine on gay wings, with the 
flutterers of the air. 

Therina. I was once a butterfly, O Car- 
thona, and my existence was most despicable. 
The glow-worm in its low estate, is pleasing 
to the eye, that approaches it near : is useful 
sometimes, to direct the steps of the benighted 
traveller. 

Carthona. Daughter of Indolence ! Thy 
discourse is idle and ungrateful. 

Therina. Hear then, O Carthona! the 
reverse of my plaintive strains, and may it 
sound sweet in thine ears. Thou art pleased 
with the tale of Malvina, who attended the 
blind age of Ossian, emphatically blind ! Her 
form rises elegant to thy mind, and the voice 
of her praise sounds melodious to thy fancy. 
Yet what is the fame of Malvina ? And what 
was the merit of Ossian ? The threads of my 
life, O Carthona, though homely, are woven 
amid others of inestimable tincture. The 
ties of indissoluble friendship have mingled 
them among threads of purest gold, the richest 
purple, and the brightest silver. Such are the 



Imitation ii. 321 

durable textures, which heaven has framed in 
the loom of civilized society : While the 
scattered threads of Fingal's days are like 
autumnal cobwebs, tost by winds from 
thorn to thorn : whence some few of peculiar 
whiteness are collected by the musing bard, 
when solitary he roams amid the pathless 
wild. 



IMITATION lit. 



True Ossian, I delight in songs : harmony 
sooths my soul. It sooths it O Ossian, but it 
raises it Far above these grassy clods, and 
rocky hills. It exalts it above the vain phan- 
toms of clouds, the wandering meteors of the 
night. 

Listen in thy turn, thou sad son of Fingal, 
to the lonely dweller of the rock. Let thy 
harp rest for a while, and thy thoughts cease 
to retrace the war and bloodshed, of the days 
that are past. Sightless art thou O Ossian, 
and sad is thy failing age. Thine ear is to the 
hollow blast, and thy expectation is closed in 
the narrow house. Thy memory is of the 
deeds of thy fathers, and thy fathers, where 
are they? What O Ossian, are those deeds of 
other times ? they are horror, and blood, and 
desolation. 

Harp of Ossian be still. Why dost thou 
sound in the blast, and wake my sleeping 
fancy? Deep and long ha* been its repose. 



Imitation hi. 323 

Solid are the walls that surround me *. The 
idle laugh enters not here : why then should 
the idler tear ? Yet Ossian I would weep for 
thee : I would weep for thee, Malvina. — But 
my days are as the flight of an arrow, Shall 
the arrow turn aside from its mark ? 

Bright was thy genius, Ossian ! but darkness 
was in thy heart : It shrank from the light of 
heaven. The lonely dweller of the rock sang, 
in vain, to thy deafened ear. The Grecian 
was not blind like thee. On him the true sun 
never dawned : yet he sung, though erroneous, 
of all-ruling Providence, and faintly looked 
up to the parent of gods and men. Thy 
vivid fancy O Ossian, what beheld it but a 
cloudy Fingal ? Vain in the pride of ancestry, 
thou remainest by choice an orphan, in an 
orphan world. Did never the dweller of the 
rock point out to thy friendless age, a kindred 
higher than the heaven ? A brotherhood wide 
as the world ? A staff to thy failing steps ? A 
light to thy sightless soul ? And didst thou re- 
ject them, Ossian ? What then is genius, but 
a meteor brightness ? The humble, the mild, 
the simple, the uneloquent, with peaceful steps 

* She was then residing in Lambeth Palace ; and who- 
erer has seen that noble work ofothzr times will allow that 
the epithet is not misapplied. 

Y 2 



324 Imitation in. 

followed their welcome pastor, into fair meads 

of everlasting verdure. While thou sittest 

gloomy on the storm-beaten hill, and repeating 
to the angry blast, the boast of human pride : 
the tales of devastation of war: the deeds 

of other times. Far other times are these 

Ah would they were! For still destruction 
spreads : still human pride rises with the tygers 
of the desart, and makes its horrid boast * ! 

* Consequently this was written before the Peace of 
1763. This last imitation is by much the finest. It shows 
a mind accustomed to think, and to think upon the best 
and truest principles ; undazzled by the glare and splendour 
of language, though deeply sensible to its charms. Sup- 
posing the Poems of Ossian to be genuine, these Reflections 
are peculiarly just and affecting. 



ALLEGORIES, 



ALLEGORY I. 



Life compared to a Play. 

If I was not quite sick of the number of 
stupid dreams, which have been writ in 
imitation of those excellent ones published in 
the Spectators, Tatlers, and some later peri- 
odical papers, I should be exceedingly tempted 
to fall into some allegorical slumbers. After 
this declaration, I know not why I may not 
actually do it ; since I see people in a hundred 
other instances, seem to imagine that censuring 
any thing violently, is amply sufficient to ex- 
cuse their being guilty of it. 

Suppose me then composed in my easy- 
chair, after having long meditated on that 
old and threadbare comparison of human Life 
to a Play. To this, my imagination furnishes 
abundance of scenery; and the train of my 
thoughts go on just as well, after my eyes are 
closed, as it did before. 

As I have yet but a very inconsiderable 
part in the performance, I have leisure enough 



328 Allegory /. 

to stand between the scenes, and to amuse 
myself with various speculations. Fortunately 
for me, I am placed near a person, who can 
give me sufficient information of the whole 
matter ; since indeed this venerable person is 
no other, than the originally intended direc- 
tress of the theatre. Wisdom by name : but 
being of a temper above entering into all the 
little disputes of the actors, she has suffered her 
place to be usurped by a multitude of preten- 
ders, who mix the vilest of farces, and the 
absurdest of tragedies, with the noblest drama 
in the world. 

These destructive interlopers were busily 
instructing all the actors as they appeared upon 
the stage, and indeed one might easily see the 
effects of their teaching. Scarce one in fifty 
repeated a single line with a natural and un- 
affected air. Every feature was distorted by 
grimace : many a good sentiment entree, by 
the emphasis with which it was pronounced. 

Would it not put one quite out of patience, 
said my neighbour, to see that fellow there, so 
entirely spoil one of the finest passages in the 
play, by turning it into a mere rant? Is there 
any bearing that man, who pretending to act 
the lover, puts on all the airs of a mad-man ? 
Wbv sir, do you think that graceful figure. 



Alkgory /. 329 

that sense, and all those advantages you were 
dresi with, in order to do honour to my com- 
pany, were given yon, only that you might 
walk about the stage, sighing and exclaiming? 
Pray let me cast an eye upon your part. — 
Look ye, are here any of those soliloquies that 
you are every moment putting in ? — Why, 
here is not a single word of misery, death, 
torment. — The lover waking out of his reverie, 
pointed to a prompter that stood at a little 
distance, when Wisdom perceived it to be 
busy Imagination. She only, with an air of 
compassion, drew the poor youth to her side 
of the stage, and begged he would keep out 
of the hearing of so bad a director. 

The next, we happened to attend to, was 
a young woman, of a most amiable figure, 
who stood pretty near us, but the good-nature 
in her countenance was mixed with a kind of 
haughty disdain, whenever she turned towards 
Imagination, that did not absolutely please 
me. I remarked upon it to my friend, and we 
jointly observed her stealing leisure from her 
part, to look over the whole scheme of the 
Drama. That actress, says she, has a most 
charming genius, but she too hcts a Travel's 
in it. Because she has seen some love scenes, 
in the play, ridiculously acted., and heard 



330 Allegory i. 

them censured by those, whose judgment she 
respects, and especially because she is very 
justly displeased with all the bombast stuff, 
Imagination puts into them, she will, ao^ainst 
her senses believe, there is scarce a single 
line about it, in the whole Drama : and there 
you may see her striking out for spurious 
passages that have warmed the noblest hearts 
with generous sentiments, and gained a just 
applause from Socrates and Plato themselves: 
two of the finest actors I ever had. This is, 
however, an error on the right side. Happy 
for you, young actress, if you never fall into 
a worse. She may indeed miss of saying an 
agreeable thing, but she never will say an 
absurd one. 

Look yonder, and you will see more dan- 
gerous, and more ridiculous mistakes. That 
group of young actors, just entering on the 
stage, who cannot possibly have beheld more 
than half a scene, pretend already, in a deci- 
sive way, to give their judgment of the whole. 
They do not so much as wait for their cue, 
(which years and discretion ought to give them) 
but thrust forward into the verv middle of the 
action. Some of them, displeased with the 
decorations of their part of the theatre, are 
busied in hurrying the tinsel ornaments, from 

3 



Allegory i. 331 

the other corners of it, where they were much 
more becomingly placed. That man yonder, 
who ought to be acting the part of a hero, is 
so taken up with adjusting his dress, and 
that of his companions, that he never once 
seems to think of the green-room, where all 
these robes must soon be laid aside. 

Look yonder, look yonder ! This is a pitia- 
ble sight indeed. Behold that woman exqui- 
sitely handsome still, though much past the 
bloom of youth* and formed to shine in any 
part, but so unhappily attached to that she 
lias just left, that her head is absolutely turned 
behind her: so unwilling is she to lose sight 
of her beloved gaieties. 

In another place you may see persons, who, 
sensible that the splendid dresses of the theatre 
are only lent them, for a time, disdain, with a 
sullen ill-judged pride, to put them on at all. 
and so disgrace the parts that were allotted 
them for their own advantage. 

Alas! what a different prompter has that 
actor got ! He was designed to represent a 
/character of generosity, and, for that purpose, 
furnished with a large treasure of counters, 
which it was his business to dispose of in the 
most graceful manner, to those actors engaged 
in the same scene with him. Instead of this, 



332 Allegory r. 

that old fellow, Interest, who stands at his 
elbow, has prompted him to put the whole 
bag into his pocket, as if the counters them- 
selves were of real value: whereas the mo- 
ment he sets his foot off the stage, or is hurried 
down, through some of those trap-doors, that 
are every moment opening around him, these 
tinsel pieces are no longer current. To con- 
ceal, in some measure, the falseness of this 
behaviour, he is forced to leave out a hundred 
fine passages, intended to grace his character, 
and to occasion unnumbered chasms, and in- 
consistencies, which not only make him hissed, 
but the very scheme of the Drama murmured 
at. Yet still he persists : and see ! just now, 
when he ought to be gracefully treading the 
stage with a superior air ; he is stooping down 
to pick up some more counters that happen to 
be fallen upon the dirty floor, made dirty on 
purpose for the disgrace of those who chuse 
to grovel there. 

You can scarce have an idea, added my 
instructress, how infinitely the harmony of the 
whole piece is interrupted, by the misuse 
which these wrong-headed actors make of its 
mere decorations. The part you have to act> 
child, is a very small one. But remember, 
it is infinitely superior %) every such attach- 

9 



Allegory j. 333 

ment. Fix your attention upon its meaning ; 
not its ornaments. Let your manner be just, 
and unaffected ; your air cheerful and disen* 
gaged. Never pretend to look beyond the 
present page : and above all, trust the great 
Author of the Drama, with his own glorious 
work : and never think to mend what is above 
your understanding, by minute criticisms, that 
are below it. 



ALLEGORY It 



The Danger of Indulgence of the Imag-ina- 
nation, 

Methought as I was sitting at work, a 
young woman came into the room, clothed in 
a loose green garment. Her long hair fell in 
ringlets upon her shoulders: her head was 
crowned with roses and myrtles. A prodigious 
sweetness appeared in her countenance, and 
notwithstanding the irregularity of her fea- 
tures, and a certain wiklness in her eyes, she 
seemed to me the most agreeable person I had 
ever beheld. 

When she was entered, she presented me 
with a little green branch, upon which was a 
small sort of nut enclosed in a hard black 
shell, which she said was both wholesome and 
delicious, and bid me follow her, and not be 
afraid, for she was going to make me happy. 

I did as she commanded me, and immedi- 
ately a chariot descended, and took us up. 
It was made of the richest materials, and 
drawn by four milk-white turtles. Whilst 
we were hurried with a rapid motion, over 



Allegory iU 335 

vast oceans, boundless plains, and barren de- 
sarts, she told me, that her name was Imagi- 
nation ; that she was carrying me to Parnas- 
sus, where she herself lived. 

I had scarce time to thank her, before we 
arrived at the top of a very high mountain, 
covered with very thick woods. Here we 
alighted: and my guide taking me by the 
hand, we passed through several beautiful 
groves of myrtle, bays, and laurel, separated 
from one another by little green alleys, ena- 
melled with the finest flowers. Nothing was 
to be heard but the rustling of leaves, the 
humming of bees, the warbling of birds, and 
the purling of streams: and in short, this spot 
seemed to be a Paradise. 

After wandering some time in this delight- 
ful place, we came to a long grass walk ; at 
the further end of which, in a bower of jessa- 
mins and woodbines, strewed with flowers, sat 
a woman, of a middle age, but of a pleasing 
countenance. Her hair was fineiy braided : 
and she wore a habit of changeable silk. 

When we approached her she was weaving 
nets of the finest silk, which she immediately 
threw down, and embraced me. I was sur- 
prized at so much civility from a stranger ; 



338 Allegory ir. 

which she perceiving, bid me not wonder at 
the kindness she showed for me, at first sight, 
since, besides my being in Ihe company of 
that lady, (pointing to Imagination) which 
was recommendation enough, my own person 
would entitle me to the favour of all who saw 
me : but, added she, you have had a long: 
walK, and want rest ; come and sit down in 
my bower. 

Though this offer would, at another time, 
have been very acceptable to me, yet so great 
was my desire of seeing the Muses, that I 
begged to be excused, and to have permission 
to pursue my journey. Being informed by 
Imagination where we were going, she com- 
mended my laudable curiosity, and said, she 
would accompany us. As we went along, she 
told me her name was Good-Will, and that 
she was a great friend to the Muses, and to 
the lady who brought me hither, whom she 
had brought up from a child; and had saved 
her from being carried away by Severity and 
Ill-humour y her inveterate enemies. 

When she had done speaking, we arrived 
at the happy place I had so much wished to 
see. It was a little circular opening, at the 
upper end of which sat, on a throne of the 
most fragrant flowers, a young man in aflame- 



Allegory n. 337 

coloured garment, of a noble, hut haughty 
countenance. He was crowned with laurel, 
and held a harp in his hand. Round him sat 
nine beautiful young women, who all played 
upon musical instruments. These, Imagina- 
tion told me, were Apollo and the Muses. 
But above all the rest, there were three that 
I most admired, and who seemed fondest of 
me. 

One of these was clothed in a loose and 
careless manner : she was reposed on a bank 
of flowers, and sung with a sweeter voice than 
any of the others. The garment of the se- 
cond was put on with the greatest care and 
exactness, and richly embroidered with the 
gayest colours, but it did not seem to fit her. 
But it was the third whom I most admired. 
She was crowned with roses and a variety of 
other flowers. She played upon all the in- 
struments, and never staid five minutes in a 
place. 

Just as I was going to sit down to a fine 
repast, which they had prepared for me of the 
fruits of the mountain, w r e saw two grave* 
looking men advancing towards us. Imme- 
diately Imagination shrieked out, and Good- 
Will said she had great reason, for those 
were Severity and Ill-Humour, who had like 

z 



338 Allegory u. 

to have ran away with her, when but a child, 
as she had told me before. You too, added 
she, may be in danger, therefore come into 
the midst of us. 

I did so: and by this time the two men were 
come up, One of them was completely 
armed, and held a mirror in his hand. The 
other wore a long robe, and held, in one hand, 
a mariner's compass, and in the other a lan- 
thorn. They soon pierced to the centre of 
our little troop ; and the first, with much ado, 
at length forced me from the only two, who 
still held out against them, and made me 
hearken to the other, who bid me not be 
afraid, and told me, though I might be preju- 
diced against him and his companion, by those 
I had lately been with, yet they had a greater 
desire of my happiness, and would do more 
towards it. But, said he, if you have eat any 
of that fruit, which you have in your hand* 
of which the real name is Obstinacy, all I can 
say will be ineffectual. 

I assured him, I had not tasted this fatal 
fruit. He said he was very glad of it, and 
bid me throw it down and follow him, which 
I did, till by a shorter way, we came to the 
brow of the mountain. When we were there, 
he told me, the only way to deliver myself 



Allegory ir. 339 

from the danger I was then in, was to leap 
down into the plain below. As the mountain 
seemed very steep, and the plain very barren, 
I could neither persuade myself to obey, nor 
had I courage to disobey him. 

I thus stood wavering for some time, till 
the man in armour pushed me down, as Men- 
tor did Telemachus. When I was recovered 
from the first shock of my fall, how great was 
my surprize to find this paradise of the world, 
this delightful mountain, was raised to that 
prodigious height, by mere empty clouds. 

After they had given me some time to won- 
der, he, who held the lanthorn in his hand, 
told me that the place before me was the 
Mount of Folly. That Imagination was 
'Romance, Good- Will was Flattery, Apollo 
was Bombast. That the two false Muses 
who tried most to keep me from coming with 
them, were Self -Conceit, and Idleness : that 
the others were Inconstancy, False-Taste, 
Ignorance, and Affectation her daughter, 
Enthusiasm of Poetry, Credulity a great pro- 
moter of their despotic dominion, and Fan- 
tasticalness, who took as many hearts as any 
of the rest. 

I thanked him for this information, and 
told him, that it would almost equal the joy of 

z % 



340 J lie gory //. 

my deliverance, to know the names of my 
deliverers. He told me his own was Good- 
Advice, and his companion's Good-Sense, his 
brother, and born at the same time. He 
added, that if I liked their company, they 
would, after having shewn me the many thou- 
sand wretches, whom my false friends had 
betrayed, conduct me to the abode of Appli- 
cation and Perseverance, the parents of all 
the virtues. 

I told him that nothing could afford me a 
more sensible pleasure. Then, said he, pre- 
pare yourself for a scene of horror : and im- 
mediately, with the help of his brother, he 
lifted up the mountain, and discovered to my 
sight a dark and hollow vale, where, under 
the shade of cypress and yew, lay in the ut- 
most misery, multitudes of unhappy mortals, 
mostly young women, run away with by Ro- 
mance. When I had left this dreadful spot, 
and the mountain was closed upon them, just 
as I was going to be good and happy, some 
unhappy accident awakened me. 



POETRY. 



POETRY. 



Awake, my Laura, break the silken chain, 
Awake, my Friend, to hours unsoil'd by pain : 
Awake to peaceful joys and thought refin'd, 
Youth's cheerful morn, and Virtue's vigorous mind : 
Wake to all joys, fair friendship can bestow, 
All that from health, and prosp'rous fortune flow. 
Still dost thou sleep ? awake, imprudent fair, 
Few hours has life, and few of those can spare *. 

Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise 
While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies : 
While yet the birds their early mattins sing, 
And all around us blooming as the spring. 
Ere sultry Phoebus with his scorching ray 
Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay, 
Scorch'd ev'ry flow'r, embrown'd each drooping green, 
Pall'd the pure air, and chas'd the pleasing scene. 
Still dost thou sleep ? O rise, imprudent fair, 
Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare. 

But this, perhaps, was but a summer song, 
And winter nights are dark, and cold, and long : 
Weak reason that, for sleeping past the morn 
Yet urg'd by sloth, and by indulgence born. 

* For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise 1 
To lie in dull oblivion, losing half 
The fleeting moments of too short a life ! 

Thomson's Summer, 



344 POETRY. 

Oh rather haste to rise, my slumb'ring friend, 
While feeble suns their scanty influence lend ; 
While cheerful day-light yet adorns the skies, 
Awake, my Friend ! my Laura haste to rise. 
For soon the uncertain short-liv'd day shall fail, 
And soon shall night extend her sooty veil # : 
Blank nature fades, black shades and phantoms drear 
Haunt the sick eye, and fill the court of feas. 
O therefore sleep no more, imprudent fair, 
Few hours has day, few days the circling year, 
Few years has life, and few of those can spare. 

Think of the task those hours have yet in view, 
Reason to arm, and passion to subdue ; 
While life's fair calm, and flatt'ring moments last, 
To fence your mind against the stormy blast : 
Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store, 
Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore, 
And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. 
Imperfect beings ! weakly arm'd to bear 
Pleasure's soft wiles, or sorrow's open war ; 
Alternate shocks from different sides to feel, 
Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel : 
Yet fram'd with high aspirings, strong desires, 
How mad th' attempt to quench celestial fires ! 
Still to perfection tends the restless mind, 
And happiness its bright reward assign'd. 
And shall dull sloth obscure the Heav'n-beam'd ray 
That guides our passage to the realms of day, 
Cheers the faint heart, and points the dubious way ! 
Not weakly arm'd, if ever on our guard, 
Nor to the worst unequal if prepar'd : 

* The night cometh when no man work. John ix. 4. 



POETRY. 345 

Not unsurmountable the task, if lov'd, 

Nor short the time if ev'ry hour improv'd. 

O rouse thee, then, nor shun the glorious strife, 

Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life : 

Assert thy reason, animate thy heart, 

And act thro' life's short scene the useful part : 

Then sleep in peace, by gentlest mem'ry crown'd, 

Till time's vast year has fili'd its perfect round. 



ON READING THE LOYE ELEGIES, 1742* 



Hither your wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring 
The short-liv'd rose f, that blooms but to decay ; 

Love's fragrant myrtles, that in Paphos spring, 
And deathless Poetry's immortal bay. 

And oh thou gentlest shade accept the verse, 
Mean tho' it be, and artlessly sincere, 

That pensive thus attends thy silent hearse, 
And steals, in secret shades, the pious tear. 

What heart, by Heav'n with gen'rous softness blest, 
But in thy Lines its native language reads ? 

Where hapless Love, in classic plainness drest, 
Gracefully mourns, and elegantly bleeds. 

In vain, alas, thy fancy fondly gay 

Trac'd the fair scenes of dear domestic life, 

The sportives forsook their wanton play, 

To paint for thee the Mistress, Friend, and Wife. 



* These Lines were written after reading Hammond's Elegies in 
M.S. a year before they were published. See his Life prefixed to 
FouhY edition, fol. 1787, in which these Lines are printed. Miss 
Talbot was then only 22 years, of age. Later in life she would pro- 
bably have admired them less. 

f nimium breves 



Flores amsense ferre jube rosae. Hon. II, Ode 3. 

6 



POETRY. 347 

One caught from Delia's lips the winning' smile, 
One from her eyes his little soul inspir'd ; 

Then seiz'd thy pen, and smooth'd thy flowing style, 
Then wept, and trembled, and with sobs admir'd. 

O luckless Lover ! form'd for better days, 

For golden years, and ages long ago, 
For Thee Persephone impatient stays *, 

For Thee the willow and the cypress grow. 

* Oh spare, Persephone, this guiltless head. 

Hammond, Eleg< IV. 



WRIT ON NEW-YEARS-EVE, WHILE THE BELLS WERE 
RINGING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 



Again the smoothly circling year, 
Beneath fair skies serene and clear, 

Completes its gentle round; 
Sweet bells in tuneful sounds express 
Gay thanks for rural happiness, 

And months with plenty crown'd, 



II. 



While yet remains the courteous guest, 

be my grateful thoughts exprest 

Unmixed with grief or fear. 
Farewell ye seasons ! roll away, 

1 wish not to prolong your stay, 

Tho' age brings up the rear. 

III. 

Cheerful I trust, for future good, 
The hand which all the past bestow'd, 

Nor heed life's shifting scene. 
Farewell kind year, which still Jias blest 
My days with peace, my nights with rest, 

And leav'st my mind serene. 



POETRY, 349 

IV. 



Not yet — but now impends the stroke, 
The far resounding midnight clock 

Has summon'd thee away ; 
Go mingle with the countless past, 
Till time himself has liv'd his last, 

In soft oblivion stay. 

V. 

But then with smiling grace appear, 
Thou blameless, grief-unsullied year, 

O smile once more on me, 
And witness that thy golden hours 
Have all been priz'd, as summer flow'rs 

By some industrious bee. 



TO CHEERFULNESS. 



Fair Cheerfulness, nymph who all nymphs dost excel, 
Ah tell me, sweet Cheerfulness, where dost thou dwell ? 
I would search the world round, thee dear charmer to find ? 
And with thy rosy chaplet my forehead to bind. 

II. 

When with thee, shall I drink of the clear crystal spring, 
While birds on the branches rejoicingly sing I 
When, with thee, on the sun-shiny hills shall I play ? 
When all nature around us, looks flow'ry and gay ? 



III. 



Oh why have I lost thee ? What heedless offence, 
Delightful companion, has banish'd thee hence ? 
This heart, still thy own, has admitted no guest 
By whom thou, dearest charmer, should be dispossest. 



IV. 

Thou ever wert known with Religion to dwell, 
And gild with thy smiles her contemplative cell : 
With Innocence thou trippest light o'er the green, 
While the blue sky above shines all clear and serene. 



POETRY. 351 



V. 



With Philosophy oft thy gay moments were past, 
When Socrates heighten' d the pleasing repast, 
With Industry ever thou lovest to go, 
Tho' she carry the milk-pail, or follow the plough. 

VI. 

Far away from my bosom I banish'd thy foes, 
Nor admitted one thought, that could hurt thy repose 
Unresting Ambition, wild Passions excess ; 
Anxiety vain, and romantic Hisfress. 

VII. 

Indeed giddy Mirth, and her frolicsome crew 

But little, if ever, thy Rosalind knew : 

Yet my solitude often by thee has been blest, 

My days thou hast brighten'd, and sweeten'd my rest, 

VIII. 

Why then art thou gone ? oh inconstant as fair, 
Art thou only a tenant of Summer's soft air ? 
Full well did I hope thy perpetual ray, 
Should gild with mild lustre, life's most gloomy day. 



IX. 



Sweet songstress dost thou with sad Philomel fly, 
To seek in new climes a more temperate sky ? 
While the Redbreast all Winter continues to sing, 
And gladdens its snows with the music of Spring. 



352 POETRY. 

X. 

Tliou should st be, thro' life my companion and guide, 
Come sickness, come sorrow, whatever betide : 
Gift of heav'n to shorten our wearisome way, 
Thro* the valley of toil, to the regions of day. 

XI. 

But methinks, in my heart still, (I hear thee reply) 
I cherish one guest, who constrains thee to fly ; 
Grey Memory famous, like Nestor of old, 
For honied discourses, and stories twice told # . 

XII. 

Old Memory often will dwell on a tale, 
That makes the fresh rose in thy garland grow pale : 
Yet what can he tell, that may justly displease 
Thee, whose cloud-piercing eye all futurity sees? 

XIII. 

He speaks but what gratitude dictates, and truth, 
Recalls the gay moments of friendship and youth : 
He tells of past pleasures securely our own, 
And so much of our journey how happily gone. 

XIV. 

Thou knowest, fair charmer of lineage divine, 
That soon the clear azure unclouded shall shine : 
That life's transient blessings the earnest but give 
Of such as from time shall no limits receive. 

* — u^ivcc pvQoXoytvtiv. Hom. Od. XII. 

Human nature has in all ages been the same ; and this has hcen 
the complaint of youth against age, and of cheerfulness against 
melancholy, from the earliest times. 



POETRY. 353 

XV. 

Oh come then, dear source of good-humour and ease, 
Who teachest at once to be pleased and to please : 
And ever henceforth, with thy Rosalind dwell, 
Sweet Cheerfulness, nymph, who all nymphs dost excel. 



a a 



MORAL STANZAS, 



Welcome tbe real state of things 

Ideal world adieu, 
Where clouds piFd up by fancy's hand 

Hang lou'ring o'er each view. 

II. 

Here the gay sunshine of content 
Shall gild each humble scene : 

And life steal on, with gentle pace, 
Beneath a sky serene. 

III. 

Hesperian trees amidst my grove 

I ask not to behold, 
Since e\ 'n from Ovid's song I know, 

That dragone guard the gold. 



Nor would I have the phoenix build 
In my poor elms his nest, 

For where shall odorous gums be found 
To treat the beauteous guest? 

V. 

Henceforth no pleasure I desire 

In any wild extreme, 
Such as should lull the captiv'd min«l 

In a bewitching dream. 



POETRY. 355 

VI. 



friendship I ask, without caprice, 
When faults are over-seen ; 

Errors on both sides mix'd with truth 
And kind good-will between. 

VII. 

^Health, that may best its value prove. 
By slight returns of pain : 

Amusements to enliven life, 
Crosses to prove it vain. 

VIII. 

Thus would I pass my hours away, 
Extracting good from all : 

Till time shall from my sliding feet 
Push this uncertain ball. 



Aa 2 



LINE S, 

Writ in the Country towards the End of Autumn. 



Spring, gay season, is no more, 
Summer's golden reign is o'er, 
Soon to close the varied year, 
Hoary Winter shall appear. 

When the northern tempests blow, 
When the hills are hid in snow, 
Where shall drooping fancy find 
Scenes to soothe a rural mind ? 

When the busy world resort 

To the gay, the festive court, 

Say, within the lonely cell, 

How shall sweet contentment dwell I 
Shall not all the tedious day 
Sad and silent wear away ? 
Shall not all the darksome night 
Fondly dream of vain delight I 

Shining scenes shall vex the mind 

To delusive sleep resign'd, 

Chas'd by chirping birds away, 

At the chilly dawn of day. 

Then to torn the studious page 
Shall the morning hours en^aoe; 
When Ihe lamps at evening burn, 
Still the studious page to turn. 



POETRY. 357 

Or intent with hand and eye 
The laborious loom to ply, 
There a mimic spring to raise, 
Vain pursuit of trifling praise, 

Hence will fancy often stray 

To the circles of the gay. 

— Shall she not? — then prithee bind 

In thy chains the veering mind. 

As it lists the wind may blow. 
Fancy shall her ruler know, 
Idle being, shadowy queen, 
Empress of a fairy scene. 

Summer, spring, and autumn past, 

Welcome winter comes at last, 

Winter comes, with sober cheer, 

Winding up the varied year. 

When the verdant scenes are lost, 
When the hills are white with frost, 
Fancy's idle reign is done, 
Reason's empire is begun. 

Happy, gay ones, may you be 

All your hours from sorrow free. 

To the happy, to the gay, 

Unreprov'd my thoughts shall stray. 

Pleasant is it to behold 
Distant mountains tipp'd with gold, 
Sunny landscapes round us spread, 
While our path is in the shade. 

Welcome Morpheus, with thy train, 

Pleasing phantoms of the brain : 

Welcome Sol's returning ray, 

Chirping birds and dawning day. 
6 



358 POETRY. 

Welcome then tbe sacred lore s 
Peaceful wisdom's endless store ; 
Hours inestimably dear, 
Welcome happiest of the year l . 
Then the pencil, then the loom, 
Welcome ev'ry mimic bloom. 
Health, and industry, and peace, 
— Muse enough, thy labour eease, 



ELEG Y r * 



O form'd for boundless bliss ! Immortal soul. 
Why dost thou prompt the melancholy sigh, 

While evening shades disclose the glowing pole, 
And silver moon-beams tremble oe'r the sky. 

These glowing stars shall fade, this moon shall fall* 

This transitory sky shall melt away, 
Whilst thou triumphantly surviving all 

Shalt glad expatiate in eternal day. 

Sickens the mind with longings vainly great, 
To trace mysterious wisdom's secret ways, 

While chain'd and bound in this ignoble state, 
Humbly it breathes sincere, imperfect praise? 

Or glows the beating heart with sacred fires, 
And longs to mingle in the worlds of love I 

Or, foolish trembler, feeds its fond desires 
Of earthly good ? or dread life's ills to prove-? 

Back does it trace the Sight of former years, 
The friends lamented, and the pleasures past? 

Or wing'd with forecast vain, and impious fears, 
Presumptuous to the cloud bid future haste ; 

* In this Elegy, of which the date is uncertain, the train of thought 
seems very similar to that which Mrs. Carter addressed to Miss Sutton 
in 1763. There is also some kind of general resemblance in them 
both (though on a subject much more sublime) to the opening 1 of 
Sbenstone's xxth Elegy ; " why droops this heart" &c* 
8 



060 POETRY. 

Hence, far begone, ye fancy-folded pains, 

Peace, trembling heart, be ev'ry sigh supprest : 

Wisdom supreme, eternal goodness reigns, 
Thus far is sure : to Heav'n resign the rest *. 

* Thus far was right; the rest belongs lo Heaven. Pope. 

Prol. to the Sat, 



O D E. 



What art thou, Memory of former days, 
That dost so subtly touch the feeling heart ? 

Thou know'st such pleasing sadness to impart, 
That dost such thrilling dear ideas raise ? 
Each wonted path, each once familiar place, 

Each object, that at first but common seem'd, 
Beheld again some sacredness has gain'd, 
With fancy's hues inexplicably strain'd, 

And by Remembrance venerable deem'd. 
Nor idle workings these of fancy fond, 

Some solemn truth the Heav'n-sent visions teach, 
Stretching our thoughts these bounded scenes beyond, 

And this their voice, and this the truth they teach, 
Time past to man should be an awful theme, 

No magic can the fugitive recall ; 
If idly lost in pleasure's noon-day dream, 

Or vainly wasted, passion's wretched thrall. 

Know, thou Profuse ? that portion was thy all, 
That narrow Pittance of some scanty years, 

Was giv'n thee, O unthinking fool to buy 

The priceless treasures of eternity. 
Hence fond remembrance prompts unbidden tears., 
And something sadly solemn mingles still, 

With ev'ry thought of time for ever gone, 
Distinct from past events of good or ill, 

Or view of Life's swift changes hastening on, 



$62 f»OETRY. 

The sadness hence : but hence the sweetness too ; 

For well spent time soft whispers to the mind 

Hopes of a blest eternity behind, 
That ev'ry happy moment shall renew. 
Now pleasing Fancy lend thy endless clue, 

And thro' the maze of bliss our path-way guida 

Where bloom unfading joys on ev'ry side, 
And each gay winding offers to the view, 
Here, boundless prospects opening to the sight, 
In full celestial glory dazzling bright, 
Increasing still, and ever to increase : 
There, the soft scenes of innocence and peace. 
Thro' which, in early youth, or riper age, 

A hand all gracious leads the virtuous few, 
That graceful tread on Life's important stage, 

But fairer now and brighter ev'ry hue : 

For stormy clouds too often intervene, 

And throw dark shadows o'er this mortal scene, 
Blast the fair buds of hope, or snatch from sights 

The dear companions of our social way, 
Absorb'd at once in death's impervious night. 
Lost for a while — but when eternal day 
Shall gladsome dawn at once its glorious ray. 
Shows the fair scene of happiness complete*: 

Then Friends, Companions, Lovers joyful meet 
Thence never more to part : and fully blown 
The buds of hope their lasting bloom display, 
Then sweet Remembrance wakes without regret* 
And back each human path they fondly trace, 
That led thro' steady Wisdom's peaceful ways, 

* See the same delightful idea, but expressed in different word*, 
in Mrs. Carter's Poem to > P. 85, Vol. n. Svo. edit. Stanza 7. 



POETRY. 86$ 

Thro' the still vale of dear domestic lifef: 
Or thro' the toils of virtue's arduous strife, 
To this blest Paradise, this beamy crown, 

This cloudless day, whose sun shall never set. 

f Secretum iter, etfallentis semita vitae. Hon. Lib. Epist. 18. 



THE. END. 



H. Gilbert, Printer, St. JolmVSquarc, London; 






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